How Can I Eat This Crap???

I have tried so hard not to become some uppety food snob. The past year has been a culinary awakening with my studies in Paris and my subsequent education both with practicing at home and internship at the Michelin restaurant. Add to this the fact that I live smack dab in the middle of the California wine country surrounded by organic farms, farmer's markets, every ingredient imaginable, foodies, and some of the best restaurants in the country. I love good food made with fresh ingredients. It doesn't need to be elaborate. It could be a hamburger as long as it's done with a little finesse using quality ingredients. Which brings me to this very moment:

Here I am at my real job in a 757.
"Ding Ding". "Hi, this is Katie, you guys ready to eat?"
"yeah, what do you have?"
"Well, we have........."

It really doesn't matter what she says next. It's going to be crap. Today's crap just happened to be a beef dish. I wanted to say "bring up whatever disgusting preserved food imitation you have", but instead I said

"Thanks Katie, sure, bring them up"

After all, it's not Katie's fault that the airlines have such low food standards.

I play with the food like a kid who delays eating in hopes of making the food miraculously disappear. Pushing the bits of food around my tray makes me lose my appetite even more. As I stare at the food my mind slips........

"Ladies and Gentlemen this is your First Officer. As a special treat, I am coming to the cabin to cook up a nice meal for everyone. As I leave the flight deck and enter the cabin there is an eruption of cheers and clapping. The passengers have thrown their food trays on the floor in revolt. There is a chorus of knives and forks banging on the tray tables as everyone chants "food...food..food". I put on my Chef's jacket and get to work.........pans fly, I am pulling out all the stops with my sauce making skills, reduction, etc...I have saved the day. YES! The flying chef has arrived.

The flying chef quickly vanishes as I am jolted back to the reality of the sterile present;

"American 272, contact Miami Center on 132.4"
"Roger, 132.4, American 272"

I look down at my tray. The food is now cold and looks even less appetizing than before. I feel bad that an animal had to die to create such a sad meal. What a waste. I cover it up and put it on the floor for its final burial. R.I.P. Some ceviche or rice and beans with plantains might be good when I get to Miami. Then again, I can't wait to get back home to California for some real food in my own kitchen.