I woke up with the vague awareness that something was amiss this morning. Sure enough, I opened the fridge for my usual pre-coffee bracer and it hit me; I had gone to bed on a depleted Diet Coke supply. Making due with half a glass of generic lite fruit punch, I lamented this turn of my wheel of fortune until the voices finally quieted with the 8 AM arrival of my iced coffee. I’m pleased to report that the reservoir is once again overflowing, and three lucky ice cubes are clinking nicely in my glass as I type.
During my several hours of pining, I recalled a great nugget from the Disgruntled Housewife, and I don’t think I could describe my dark passenger any better:
Diet Coke is not for dieters. Diet Coke is for those of us who are modern enough to take that leap of faith into the realm of the unknown. It is more mysterious than Tab, more adult than Coke Classic, more bitter and dry than Fresca. Diet Coke is that wonderful junction where science meets food. It is the ultimate synthetic food: calorie-free, nutrient-free, and vaguely immoral.
Now, I would never advise including a soft drink in any kind of cooking, but I’m never more than a foot away from a tall, iced glass of DC when I’m working in the kitchen. Or anytime after noon, really.