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Leaving hurts. Until that first bite of homemade waffle on Sunday morning, my progress from west to east was marked by increasingly limp, chemical foodstuffs:

Portland: Fresh coffee and a bag of delicious treats.

PDX > MPLS : “Organic” peanuts.

Minneapolis : Boxed microwave pizza and a coke .

MPLS > BOS : Tasteless cookie & (iceless) Pepsi.

Boston : An unfortunately durable (lukewarm) meatball sub (I think).

I had conveniently forgotten how jarring a departure from Portland can be to one’s digestive system; or, for that matter, to one’s interest in food altogether. Even a short visit can seriously hamper my willingness to choke down the assorted flavors of reconstituted corn-base that the rest of the country gorges itself on every night of the week; but six months? It’s like being given a pleasant new appreciation for all things edible, and then having that whole delicate world torn down over the course of six short hours. Somehow Portland has maintained a hold on being home to America’s last healthy lifestyle, and the sheer number of boutique eateries that pride themselves on serving exclusively Fresh & Delicious meals (for a reasonable price) make the the city a delicious gem, home to gustatory opulence of every stripe.

I miss it already.

Now, bear in mind that I’m referring to the occasional dinner out or sidewalk lunch. I habitually sustain myself (for a certain percentage of the time anyways) off of the ubiquitous cup-o-noodles, numberless boxes of cinnamon toast crunch, and every other shrink-wrapped horror that can be gotten at the nearest gas station minimart. The battle of good food against easy food is sometimes a losing one. However, even at the Plaid Pantry, the minimart closest to my last apartment, Portland manages to shine. Where you would find only the dingiest assortment of piss-weak “lite beers” at a comparable place on the east coast, my little Plaid managed to stock whole refrigerators full of specialty ales from local breweries. I can’t count the number of times I would realize – suddenly – that this day was meant for sitting on the porch with a beer, and after being briefly disappointed at what the refrigerator had to offer, march over the Plaid and grab a six pack of something which, if I were in Boston (or NH for that matter), could only be hunted down in specialty shops.

As Matt Gross (aka The Frugal Traveler) wrote in his recent review of PDX:

“My eight-ounce sirloin cost $5.50 and came deliciously medium-rare. This being Portland, the meat was locally sourced, too, from cattle on the owner’s ranch.”

And he was writing about a goddamn strip club.

Oh Portland.