I loved the way cheap outdoor lighting reflected onto hay cast that world in sepia tones. I loved the smell of the air – of grease and old wood and cotton candy.

There would be twinkling lights, and music, and rides. Enormous, horribly-constructed stuffed animals hung above the rigged games on the midway, as they had for years, because no one could ever win them. Children walked by, sticky from giant swirled lollipops that never tasted as good as they looked. Men in cowboy hats and boots; women with teased hair and pink lip gloss, their names airbrushed across the front of their shirts in rainbow colors. As a child, I wanted nothing more than a shirt like that. Sartorially speaking, I suppose it’s best that I never got one.

There was a darker side to it, too. A side show that featured a headless woman (in retrospect, it must have been animatronic. At the time, though, it was real and scarring). Rides with names like The Zipper and The Gravitron which left me curled up and moaning. At times like those, I couldn’t help but think that maybe, maybe, that night would be my last. It may have been the hastily-assembled rides, operated by stoned teenagers, or the copious amount of junk food now clogging my virgin arteries, but something  made me realize, even at the tender age of  10 or 11, that I would not roam the earth forever.

It was horrifying and glorious.

I have not been to a carnival in decades. County fairs have eluded me, along with their state-wide counterparts.  But I have had dinner at Sunshine Tavern in Portland. And believe me when I tell you: it is the same thing.

Our friends Matt and Kim took us there at the end of summer, in the wake of my birthday, when we drove through town en route to Ashland. When it comes to gastronomical debauchery, they are good partners in crime. Matt drives the getaway car. And I can only assume that Kim has killed more men than she’s brought into the world.

The restaurant had a warm sepia glow, courtesy of low-watt lightbulbs. The air smelled of grease and booze. And as I sat there, slightly hypnotized by the lights of the blinking arcade games that lined one corner of the restaurant, I thought: I know this place.

We had drinks and pored over the menu. The four of us decided to share food, though Kim weighed in with one request.

“I want the Monte Cristo.”

“Oh god,” Matt replied, his eyes wide. “That thing is like a carnival.”

SOLD.

We ordered an entree of fried chicken and waffles to accompany it, and a side of poutine. At the last minute, we added a salad to our meal, its sole purpose on the table being to serve as a counterexample to our gluttony.

The siblings from the deep fryer arrived at the table together, golden and crisp. The poutine was ladened with sausage gravy, and our waiter brought it to us with a side of liver pate, his own excessive addition.

-

That’s right: we dipped fries in a smooth terrine of duck liver and fat. It was as wrong as it was brilliant. Which is to say, very.

The chicken and waffles were tinged with sweetness. The meat was juicy, the waffle crisp around the edges, light and tender inside. They mixed together, and my tongue could not decipher the riddle going on inside my mouth. Was this madness breakfast or dessert? Sweet or savory? In the end, there were no answers and it mattered not.

-

The salad, too, was there, attempting to hold its own among the decadence (I took no photo. I do not waste film on vegetables). And I’d be remiss if I didn’t give credit where it was deserved. They were all good. They really were.

But that Monte Cristo stays on my mind like an old lover. I remember every inch of it. The battered crust, the color of a field of wheat at the end of summer. The sprinkle of powdered sugar on top, like the dusting of snow on a winter’s night. The fried egg balanced above it all.

Oh, good. More fries.

-

This was no mere sandwich. This was birth and death. Love and hate. It was both ephemeral and eternal.

Afterwards, I wanted a cigarette.

-

When the table was finally cleared, Rand and Kim left to try their hands at the arcade games. I stayed seated and talked to Matt. I think we discussed The Royal Tenenbaums, and the meaning of life, though I can’t say definitively about that last bit. I pointed too much during our conversation, was perhaps a bit too excited and a bit too loud, but Matt let it slide. I was drunk on half a margarita and one quarter of a fried sandwich.

We eventually left the restaurant, and the noise and lights, making a slow retreat towards the car. The sun was still setting late, but a chill had already crept into the air, and we tried to ignore it. Summer was ending. Time was passing.

I was sick with over-indulgence, with the nausea that accompanies any meal cooked by taking a dip into a vat of boiling oil. My heart constricted just a little, and I thought for a fleeting moment that perhaps I might die, then and there. That perhaps that night would be my last.

It was horrifying and glorious. It was a carnival.

Oh, and then, like, ten minutes later we went and got ice cream.

-

I probably shouldn’t have dragged them all that way.

If I had a conscience, I’d feel guilty, but I got rid of mine sometime around the 10th grade, when I let a boy touch my boobs for the first time.

Thank goodness for that. The conscience-ridding, I mean. The boob-touching was less to rave about (teenage boys lack the tenderness that mammaries require).

And so, feeling nary a smidge of guilt, I made my dear friends travel across Manhattan – covering the length of the island both north-south and east-west - so that I could eat hummus.

Yes, hummus. That gritty, unmiraculous paste of garbanzo beans and garlic and tahini.

It seemed like a ridiculously long way to go for bean dip. Especially when you consider that I can find it on any street corner in Manhattan, at any of the thousands of smokey halal food carts that line the city, scooped out in generous dollops onto partially charred pita. I can get it at the grocery store. I can even make the stuff, if I have a spare three minutes.

But it will be nothing like the hummus they serve at Hummus Kitchen (BTW, great name guys. Bet it took you all day to come up with that one).

I first discovered the restaurant on a trip to New York City years ago. It was inexpensive and relatively close to our hotel, and I figured it would be a good spot for lunch.

I shouldn’t have gone that first time. I’d never have known what I was missing. I could have carried on with my days, not thinking about that delicious unctuous tapenade of deliciousness, that magical concoction which they served with whole garbanzo beans on top, drizzled with olive oil and some green sauce which I’ve always gobbled up before being able to decipher what it is (the secret ingredient is either cilantro or leprechauns).

But I went, and my life was changed. I couldn’t go back to the way things were. To that too-sour tub of goop that from Trader Joe’s that I’d been noshing on. To gritty homemade varieties that seemed better suited for grouting tile than human consumption. No. I couldn’t do it.

Since then, I’ve made a pilgrimage to Hummus Kitchen on nearly every subsequent visit to New York. Even if it’s nowhere near my hotel. Even if I’m on the other side of town. Even if I have to drag my poor friends there and did I mention that one of them was wielding a toddler? I MADE HER DRAG A TODDLER FROM BROOKLYN TO MIDTOWN SO I COULD GET MY HUMMUS FIX.

I’m so grateful I don’t have a pesky conscience bugging me, otherwise I might feel guilty. And I’d have missed out on this:

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I always get the Mazze trio when I go, with the Mediterranean chopped salad, the bureka, and obviously a side of the hummus. But free will being what it is, you may order whatever you like, and I suspect you’ll be happy. One of my lunchdates got the falafel, which, he noted, was crisp and warm and satisfying, despite looking a little bit like cat turds.

I shouldn't have made that crack about cat turds. It's now all you can see, huh?

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If you go, ask for a side of the spicy green salsa on the side. I don’t know what’s in it, either. Based on the addictive nature of it, I suspect some of the ingredients would cause you to fail a drug test. But I’m just speculating.

This photo is out-of-focus because I refused to stop eating while I took it.

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Or perhaps you shouldn’t go at all. Because Hummus Kitchen will ruin you. You will think of it often, and all subsequent trips to New York will require a stop at one of their not-at-all-convenient locations. And you will sit, and eat, and wonder how you can go back to the life you once led, and then you will realize, somewhat horrified, that you can’t.

And so you order another side of hummus.

Sometimes eating at chain restaurant won't leave you feeling dirty and sad inside. Really.

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In high school, I ate fast food nearly every day.

While my colon now involuntarily spasms at the thought, I lunched at Burger King on Mondays through Fridays for the better part of my junior and senior years. And yet, miraculously, I was far thinner than I am now. It was clearly a superpower of youth, one that I am unable to explain. In the words of Madonna, life is a mystery.

I gave up fast food, almost entirely, after watching SuperSize Me. I have Morgan Spurlock to thank for saving my arteries, and for almost succeeding in bringing back the Hulk Hogan mustache. Well done, sir.

Since then, I’ve often said you should never eat at a chain or fast food restaurant, particularly while traveling. Once Rand had to physically restrain me from running into an Olive Garden in Manhattan and shouting at the diners therein, “WHAT IS THIS BLASPHEMY?” while upturning their baskets of endless breadsticks. It’s only a matter of time before I chain myself to a TGIFriday’s, and go to prison for the noblest of crimes: protecting my fellow Americans from mediocre food.

And yet – (much like the time I noted that Billy Crystal was kind of hot towards the end of When Harry Met Sally, I CANNOT BELIEVE I’M SAYING THIS) there are times when I think that eating fast food is entirely forgivable, particularly while traveling. There are a couple of caveats, of course:

• It can’t be a chain that exists in your hometown. Or state. Better you don’t even have it in your country.
• At least try to order something interesting, okay? No, chicken nuggets aren’t interesting. They are an abomination. A really yummy abomination. Like those those conjoined M&Ms I once found. Or any snack cake made by the Hostess Corporation.
• Street food doesn’t count as fast food. Street food is always awesome, even when it causes severe gastric discomfort.
• If you get a kids’ meal, you must send me the toy.

During our last few trips to New York, I actually sought out two chains, voluntarily and while sober. No, they aren’t the best places to eat in New York. But they are world’s better than the mutant KFC/Taco Bell/Pizza Huts that are popping up everywhere (Seriously? You aren’t even going to dedicate a storefront to one single crappy cuisine? You have to foist three upon us at once? That’s like punching someone, eating the last brownie in the pan, and revealing the twist to The Sixth Sense all at the same time. So not cool.)

Here are the two chains at which I will forgive you for eating. They can be found in New York and London, amongst other places, and they’re branching out quickly. Pray they don’t come to Seattle, or my all my plans will be ruined.

———

Pret a Manger

The number of times Rand and I have landed in London, bleary-eyed and starving, is now too many to count. It was on one of those days that we first wandered into a Pret, at the recommendation of our friend Jane.

And perhaps it was the jetlag and the British Airways chicken curry talking, but we found it to be FRIGGIN AMAZING. It’s like 7-11 for foodies. They have shelves and shelves full of sandwiches, and not those god-forsaken egg-salad-with-wilted-lettuce-on-white-bread abominations that you find at an actual 7-11. NO. They have the sandwiches those sandwiches could have become if they had applied themselves more and gone to a good college. A Vietnamese baguette with grilled chicken and cilantro. Brie, basil, and tomato on crusty bread. And yes, they even have an egg salad sandwich but it would smack the eggs from that other egg sandwich BACK INTO THEIR SHELLS WITH ITS AWESOMENESS (I say this as someone who has not eaten the sandwich in question. Because I don’t like egg salad. But still, I know the one from Pret is better).

And there’s more. I once had a salad there studded with tiny little crayfish and thin slices of salmon – a particular variety which I suspect is only available in the U.K. Another had tabouli and olives and roasted red peppers, and by the time I was done with it, my undying affection, too.

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They have little bags of popcorn with sea salt, and all manner of cookies and cakes and bars, including a gingerbread man that I bought in London that was later eaten in Barcelona by this man:

Damn it, Kenny. You owe me a little cookie man with chocolate buttons.

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And, as if that wasn’t enough, the copywriting on the packaging is phenomenal. That’s right: EVEN THE NAPKINS ARE BRILLIANT.

This is what happens when you let writers be awesome.

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Clearly, when I’m starving and looking for a bite in New York or London, I’ve no reason to go anywhere else.

Unless, say, there’s a Le Pain Quotidien close by.

———

Le Pain Quotidien

Originally started in Brussels, Le Pain has stores in Europe and beyond (currently more than 18 countries), and I’ve visited locations in London, New York, and Los Angeles. They have vegan options, too, and I can tell you firsthand that they don’t suck. This, coming from a girl who endeavors to eat bacon at every meal, is high praise.

VEGAN-TASTIC!

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They have salads and tartines (which is a fancy word for open-face sandwiches) and a pastry selection that nearly made me pee. The food is good, if a little pricey -I once paid $20 for a salad at the Covent Garden location. It was a really good salad, but still.

The salmon tartine at Le Pain.

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But what’s really magical is this:

I love that the label actually includes a little chocolatey fingerprint design.

-

They call it Noisella, but that’s only because they don’t want to get sued. It’s basically Nutella, which is pretty damn magical on its own, but it’s ORGANIC. And they bring A WHOLE FRIGGIN JAR OF IT TO YOUR TABLE AND THEN THE MISERABLE FOOLS JUST WALK AWAY.

I mean, they just leave it there. And you can do whatever you want to it. Presumably, everyone is respectful and responsible and doesn’t reach in with their bare fingers (even though no one is watching and you totally could) because that would be wrong. So deliciously wrong.

I just licked my monitor.

-

So instead you simply dip your spoon in as far as it will go and pluck it out, so that it is so heavily coated with chocolate awesomeness that it in no way resembles a spoon. And after a frenzy of eating during which your mate can’t actually bear to look at you, you fall into a blissful sugar coma, while still managing to threaten to cut your husband if he tries to pry the flatware from your cold, sticky hands. You will be buried with that spoon. Along with several jars of Noisella.

It’s what the pharoahs would do if they lived in modern times.

“Ramses, I swear to me, I’d better find at least three crates of that off-brand Nutella in my tomb when I die, or I will send a plague of locusts on your ass. None of that dessicated cat in jar crap, okay?” ***

***I clearly know nothing about ancient Egypt. Moving on …

The point I’m trying to make is this: Sometimes you eat an entire jar of chocolate hazelnut spread and forget what your point is.

No, wait. That’s not it. Maybe … sometimes Billy Crystal is hot? Yes. That was my point. Sometimes he is. Sometimes a stopped clock tells the right time. And sometimes chain restaurants are good.

How have I let so much time pass without telling you about these?

-

It is late Sunday night, and I’m staring at my computer screen, trying to figure where the time went.

“How is the weekend already over?” I wonder (even after years of having no real obligations on Monday morning, I am still sad when it approaches).

And just earlier today, I asked a friend how, exactly, it was December already. And how can 2012 possibly be weeks away? How – sweet lord in heaven – how am I thirty-one years old and still have to stop myself from answering “Sixteen!” when people ask me my age? (And why, while we’re on the topic, do people keep asking me how old I am? Is it that much of a mystery?)

I close my eyes tightly, trying to take a mental catalog of the last few hours, days, weeks, months, and years. Did they all pass by so quickly? Did I miss anything? Did I forget to tell you anything?

There are things I’ve yet to get to, I know. Last summer’s trip to Ashland. The visit to the east coast that happened just before that. The journey to Machu Picchu right after. Barcelona. London. Halloween in New York. Thanksgiving in San Diego. They are all places that I will tell you about, as soon as my life calms down and my wheels of my rolling suitcase have had a chance to cool.

Really, there’s nothing that I have to tell you about that can’t wait. Except for one thing. Something of such importance, that I’m amazed I didn’t write about it sooner.

I need to tell you about the best cupcake I’ve ever had. And the middle of the night on a Sunday seems a perfectly good time to do it.

Rand and I were in New York this past August and in possession of a rental car. On our way out of the city (heading to Jersey to see Rand’s grandparents) we figured we’d swing by Philly and visit a friend. That’s something that’s always fascinated me about the Northeast: drive a few short hours, and you’ll find yourself in a different state, and a drastically different city. It seems that whenever we drive anywhere in New Jersey, Rand will excitedly turn to me and say, “Guess where we are?”

“Um … Princeton?”

“No. We’re in Pennsylvania!”

It happens without fanfare or flourish. I will watch the trees passing by on the side of the road, and suddenly, miraculously, we are in another state. This is how we end up in Philadelphia. We leave New York on a hot, overcast morning, storm clouds rumbling on the horizon, listen to a few hours of NPR and Mumford and Sons, and end up in a place called New Liberties, in Philly.

It is there that we meet Rand’s friend and colleague Wil (with one L) and after a lunch during which things got far too intellectual for a Sunday, and the threatening skies finally open up on us, he tells us about Brown Betty.

Cupcakes lie within.

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One of its many claims to fame? It was featured in Oprah Magazine. This didn’t immediately sway me: I still have yet to buy into The Secret or the holiday stylings of Josh Groban. Besides, when it comes to cupcakes I am a tough critic. I demand a moist cake with golden edges that are just a weensy bit crisp. A frosting that tastes of something more than sugar (vanilla, perhaps?), has a bit of salt for height, and develops a nice crust that provides just a little bit of resistance as you bite down.

And, rather remarkably, the cupcakes at Brown Betty meet all of my demands. They are enormous, and almost creamy in texture. And yet, they are not overwhelming. The sweetness is actually quite moderate: it doesn’t cloyingly coat your tongue,  and it spares you the slightly-revolting-feeling that comes from having ingested half a pound each of sugar and butter. These cupcakes are, despite their miraculous size, subtle in flavor.

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Rand got the "Sing Little Alice" a chocolate-vanilla marble cake with chocolate and vanilla frosting.

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Ever the traditionalist, I went with Sally's Sour Cream. It was heavenly and light, and not at all indicative of the condiment in its name.

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The store is darling. Decorated in pink and brown (like all good cupcake shops should be) it looks like a confection, and yet there is something gritty and down-to-earth about the shop. Perhaps it is the less-than-perfect appearance of the cupcakes. They do not look like they were made in a professional kitchen, but rather in the home of some genius friend who happens to have a sweet tooth and a less-than-steady frosting hand. The girl behind the counter is friendly and courteous while still being all business. She tells us the cupcakes she prefers, takes our order quickly and competently. We order three – one each for me, Rand, and Wil, and they are packed in individual plastic cases (no pink boxes for this place, and that’s fine by me. I like to gaze at my cakes before I devour them).

Rand and Wil pick out their cakes.

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If I ran the world, all menus would look like this.

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The surrounding area, much like the store itself, is a mix of glamor and grit. Wil explains that it’s changed considerably in the last few decades. It wasn’t a particularly wealthy part of town when he was a kid, but now it’s full of trendy boutiques and restaurants, modern condos and offices (including Wil’s company’s headquarters which are located – no kidding – in a renovated church).  The issue of gentrification in the area is a heated one – many residents say it’s at the expense of the neighborhood’s soul. As a visitor, I’m not able to pick up on this – I just blithely see the charm of the area. I look no further than the frosting on my cupcake or the facades on the buildings.

It is getting late – we need to head back to Jersey, and Wil needs to be in New York that night. There’s comfort in the fact that many of our friends travel as much as we do.  We say goodbye, and as we head back to Flemington, I occasionally peek at the desserts nestled near my feet.

Hello, lover.

-

I worry there won’t be enough for everyone, but Rand reminds me that his grandparents aren’t big on sweets. While this is true, it proves to not apply to these cupcakes. They are so delicious, we all devour them on a rainy night in his grandparents’ kitchen, and I am left pressing my finger against the last few crumbs and depositing them on my tongue.

And I am very, very happy.

It remains perhaps the best cupcake I’ve ever eaten. An unforgettable one, really. Which is why I can’t believe I almost forgot to tell you about it.

"You killed my father ... prepare to die."

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I was a vegetarian for 6 weeks when I was 19. It was a confusing, misguided time for me. I was dating a young man who didn’t eat meat, and, well … who hasn’t done something stupid for a boy? When he broke up with me, I treated myself to a dinner out: bacon-wrapped shrimp followed by a rack of baby-back ribs. I might have had a pork chop for dessert. I don’t really remember (it was, after all, ages ago).

The thing I realized as I nibbled on those ribs- or the thing I had started to realize at least (because I wouldn’t really get the message until I met Rand) is that you’ve got to be yourself, and you have to find someone who will love you for it. In my case, being myself involves eating meat. It’s not something that I hide from, it’s not something that I’m ashamed of.

I’ve understood from a tender young age what the consequences of my actions are. When I was four or five, I told my mother I wanted some of my aunt Maria’s chicken, and as we drove away from my auntie’s house, I saw her catching the bird in her front yard that we would later eat. Later, she brought it over to our house, cooked and cleaned and cut up, in an old margarine tub. I peeled back the lid and peaked inside and I understood: this was the chicken that I had seen running around before. Even the feet were in there, and this didn’t alarm me at all. In fact, they were favorite part.

There was no denying it: my desires had ended that chicken’s life. I had literally asked for it, and I had gotten it.

That’s how it went in my family. There was no pussy-footing the matter. My grandmother was constantly defrosting enormous blocks of meat which were threatening to overflow our freezer. She and my mother would cook up animal parts most Americans toss out. Pig’s feet. Snout. Tripe. I ate it all. There was no such thing as a vegetarian in my house. I had never even heard the word applied to a human until high school (before then, only certain animals could be vegetarian. Not people).

From snout to tail and everything in between, including entrails, I’ve eaten it. Over the years, I consumed a veritable Noah’s ark of creatures. Duck. Rabbit. Gator. Goat. Quail. Tiny baby squid and octopus. Caribou. Partridge. Elk. Kangaroo. And, most recently, guinea pig.

Yes, guinea pig. Or, as they are known in Peru, cuy.

They came right up to me and sniffed. "I can smell the corpse of my brother on your lips," one seemed to say.

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Thanks to Anthony Bourdain, I knew before arriving in Peru that guinea pig was part of the traditional cuisine, especially in rural areas. The guinea pig originated in the Andes. And I did not think twice about eating one while I was there. When in Peru, eat like a Peruvian.

Yes, guinea pigs are often kept as pets in the states. But so are rabbits, and I eat those. And I eat loads of chicken – which was my mother’s pet of choice when she was a little girl (odd duck, that mom of mine).

Besides, my philosophy on meat-eating is pretty simple: you can’t be hypocritical. You can’t eat chicken breasts, individually packaged and sealed (so far removed from the animal it once was that you can almost pretend it was grown like a plant) and then refuse to eat meat on the bone. You can’t eat cheeseburgers and then turn up your nose at tripe. You don’t have to like everything, but if you eat meat, you have to at least be willing to try everything. It’s all or nothing (with exceptions, of course, for dietary restrictions and religious beliefs).

Plus, how can you say you visited a country until you eat the regional cuisine?

So I tried cuy. Twice no less. I ordered it at Cicciolina, an upscale Peruvian restaurant in Cuzco. I was slightly disappointed that the cuy came picked off the bone – it could have been any type of meat, really. Still, it was delicious. My dish had shredded guinea pig meat spiced with mint and apples, placed upon a terrine of mashed Andean potatoes.

Mmmmmm ... guinea pork.

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The same entree after I dug into it a bit.

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The dish was fantastic. Savory and sweet all at once. The acidity of the apples cut the potatoes and meat perfectly. The cuy itself was moist, sweet, and mild in flavor. It reminded me of shredded duck, or dark meat turkey. I found it wasn’t particularly gamey – guinea pigs aren’t the most active of animals, it seems.

We enjoyed that meal at Cicciolina so much, we went back a second time, and I ordered cuy again. This time it was roasted on the bone, atop a paella-style rice dish. It had less flavor that the other cuy I had tried, but the texture was fantastic – a crispy and crackly exterior and moist inside.
-

I ate the whole thing.

-

Did I think about the fuzzy animals that died in order for me to enjoy these meals? Absolutely. But it’s something I think about before I consume meat. It’s something I make myself think about. It’s my modern-day equivalent of watching my aunt catch that chicken. I know it was once alive, I know it’s dead, I know I’m the reason.

And I keep doing it. I try to honor the sacrifice the little creature made by making sure that the bones are picked clean, that the meal is enjoyed (though that probably brings them little comfort). I think about it and I appreciate it, but I don’t really feel guilty. At least, not enough to stop eating meat. Perhaps it’s wrong. But it’s who I was raised to be. It’s who I am.
-

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And fortunately there’s someone who will love me for being exactly that.

We live in a land where pork is put into desserts and cakes and doughnuts, and that is no small thing.

In Wichita, I had no less than three bacon-scented sweets: a bacon caramel chocolate (I deemed it mediocre), a cupcake sprinkled with bacon bits (not bad for breakfast), and a maple-bacon doughnut (YES). This last confection, by far the most superior of the three, was courtesy of the Donut Whole. A small, eclectic shop downtown, they specialize in cake donuts, of which I am a fan because IT MEANS YOU CAN EAT CAKE FOR BREAKFAST. If you are partial to yeast donuts, or a vegetarian, you may want to skip this post altogether. I’ll understand.

The shop itself is shrine to … I don’t know. Something. Really, you tell me:

Let's just go with "America."

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There's a portrait of Colonel Sanders in one corner. Purveyors of fried foods need to stick together.

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A finger-painting by a chimp named Cheeta.

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And this summed things up nicely.

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All of the doughnuts begin life in the same way – as a moist dense cake of either vanilla or chocolate. A myriad of glazes and topping are applied – and the results are as creative as they are nutritionally void.

Pictured: The Homer J (pink glaze with rainbow sprinkles) and the Old School (cinnamon and sugar).

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The drive-up window is open 24-hours, which is perfect if you are timid or stoned. There are no less than 25 varieties available every day, lest you begin to forget that we live in the land of the plenty and are the most obese superpower on earth.

Fun fact: I tried 75% of the donuts pictured here.

–

We went back twice, and of all the doughnuts I sampled, the maple bacon reigned supreme. The bacon was crispy and fresh, the maple icing smooth and creamy, forming a gentle crust over the golden cake. The idea behind the doughnut may have been gaudy, but there was poetry in its execution.

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The obvious downside of this deliciousness is that it’s almost impossible to not feel guilty after eating one. You may begin to wonder what number of calories you consumed (I have no idea – my approach was “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”) Images of starving children may flash through your mind. Not that you will do a damn thing about it, but still, the images will be there and you will feel somewhat awful but you will continue eating the doughnut until it is gone because you don’t want to be wasteful on top of everything (and besides, it’s really, really good).

Though just a few weeks have passed, my time in Wichita seems like ages ago. It’s hard to look back on that doughnut now, and not think about the exchange I had with Nicolas, one of our tour guides in Peru. He was from the village of Pisac, about an hour from Cuzco. He showed us a “typical family” for the region – a mother of 17 or 18, and her equally young husband. He pointed out children from the mountain villages wearing shoes made from old tires. He explained that most of the kids couldn’t afford to go to school, even though it was mandatory. And then he asked me about pork.

“It’s very expensive here,” he noted. “How much does it cost in the U.S.?”

I told him that pork wasn’t expensive. It usually costs more than chicken, less than beef. He nodded. I told him we ate it often, but omitted the part about how we fried it and put it on cake for breakfast.

It’s a powerful reminder: the world is not just, and the playing field is anything but level. Life is difficult for a lot of people, and for others, it’s just a pile of maple-bacon doughnuts. If you’re lucky enough to be in the latter category, be sure to appreciate how delicious it is.

And if you can, visit the Donut Whole.

By the way, that latter technique? TOTALLY works.

He mentioned this phenomenon to me one afternoon while I was standing in the middle of an IKEA on the verge of one of my patented and adorable nervous breakdowns. If you are unfamiliar with the Swedish furniture mecca that is IKEA, let me tell you now: it could drive the most resolute soul into a mad rage, could reduce the happiest of mortals into sniveling mess. In 1998, Gandhi punched a dude who was trying to snag the last OMSORG shoe tree in stock. True story.

It isn’t just that IKEA is a sensory-overloaded, windowless maze that forces you to go through the entire store before you are able to escape (a forty-minute excursion, if you maintain an average running speed of 1 mile every 6 minutes). Or that it’s filled with dozens of items that seem like a good idea until you get them home, and then have to explain to your husband why you bought a pack of 5,000 votive candles (“They were only $3.95!” is not a sufficient excuse), a mosquito net (WHEN YOU LIVE IN SEATTLE), or a lamp that only works with a wattage of bulb that is not available in North America except at friggin IKEA and YOU ARE SO NOT GOING BACK THERE. And it’s not even that IKEA products take several long years to assemble, and absolutely everything, even trash cans and garlic presses and wooden mixing spoons, need to be assembled (though that’s a big part of it. My marriage has been tested by an IKEA file cabinet. It currently sits in my office, quietly mocking me. One day I will hurl it out the window with the battle cry of a Norse god. But right now it holds my paper clips).

All of these elements contribute to the dark evil that is IKEA, but the biggest problem with the entire place? There are far too many options.

No matter how specific your needs, IKEA will have 17 potential solutions available in four different colors. Rand and I had spotted a wardrobe that looked perfect for us. When I asked an employee for help, he explained that it couldn’t be purchased in one package. We’d have to select the width of the wardrobe, along with the height and depth, all of which were available in 6 different sizes. We had to select the color of the wardrobe, the color of the doors, trim, and handles. We needed to chose all the interior features: coat racks, shoe racks, hat racks, sliding drawers (available in a myriad of sizes and colors), mirrors, cabinets, and hooks.

“There are,” the young employee told us, his eyes shining with perverse pleasure, “thousands of options.” (I hope he gets a splinter while assembling his IKEA coffee cup. I really do.)

And when I heard those words in the middle of the IKEA showroom, I did what so many have done before: I began to panic.

That, like always, was where Rand came in.

“You know,” he said calmly, with a sort of inner peace that would make the Dalai Lama proud, “we could just forget we ever saw this thing.”

I looked up at him, tears in my eyes. What was this madness coming from his lips?

“Wha … wha?” was my eloquent reply.

Rand eyes twinkled, and his voice came out in an excited whisper.

“We could just buy that bookshelf over there to store our clothes. And then we wouldn’t have to worry about any of this.”

“Hubba wha?” I said. My brain was fried. IKEA is awful.

And so Rand gently grabbed my arm, and took me to the restaurant, the only safe haven in all of IKEA, where options are few and glorious, and bought me a piece of cake.

Then we bought a bookshelf in which to put our clothes, took it home, and didn’t fight at all when we assembled it. We are going to be married for a bazillion years, and all of them will be glorious. Here’s proof:

We store our clothes on a bookshelf. We're SO wacky.

-

That day at IKEA came to mind when I was once again faced with too many options. I was at Bogey’s in Hutchinson, Kansas. And sadly, Rand was not there.

Jason and I headed to Bogey’s after our journey to the Kansas Underground Salt Museum.

Whenever a restaurant has an image of ice cream on the sign, it's probably not going to be terribly healthy.

-

Bogey’s offers fairly standard fast food fare. They have a handful of fried entrees and side orders to choose from. I got a burger, which didn’t impress me much, and some fried okra, which did. Why we don’t have okra in the northwest is beyond me. Someone call the governor and tell her to get on this immediately.
-

Oh, and I also got a shake, for which Bogey’s is known. IKEA may have 500 different closet combinations, but Bogey’s has 101 hundred different flavors of milkshakes. ONE HUNDRED AND ONE. For those of you who are bad at math, that’s one milkshake for every dalmatian. The list is daunting.

-

Faced with so many choices, very little time elapsed before I began to lose my mind. My eyes began to blur. Some of the flavors, like Dutch apple pie, made no sense at the time. Others, like hot-fudge-butter-pecan-banana still confound me.

Others are repetitive. I question whether one would be able to distinguish between chocolate-banana and chocolate-banana-nut.  Or chocolate cheesecake and chocolate-chip-cheesecake. The differences, I suspect, are slim.

I scanned the menu, and my eyes stopped on s’mores. I love s’mores. They one on the growing list of reasons I will never be a vegetarian.

But I’d read less than a tenth of the menu. Surely I couldn’t stop there, right? But as soon as I tried to read on, I got dizzy.

Strawberry marshmallow chocolate chip? THAT IS NOT A FLAVOR. THAT IS A GROCERY LIST.

Could I get something as relatively boring as s’mores? Didn’t I have to try a strange flavor? Or seven? My heart rate quickened. I was tempted to crawl into my shirt and scuttle out the door. But I remembered what Rand had said in IKEA. Sometimes, you can forget that you saw all those other options.

“I’ll have a s’mores shake,” I told the girl behind the counter.

-

And I was very happy with that decision.

And most significantly, I like sweets. This is perhaps one of the biggest things that separates me from 80% of my blood relations. They are perfectly content to go days, if not weeks or lifetimes, without anything that even remotely resembles sugar. I’ll never forget the time my aunt once told me not to frost a cake that I had made.

“You know,” she said, gently, “because some people don’t like frosting.”

“Bwa-whaaaaa?” was all I was able to sputter out before promptly fainting. She might as well have asked me not to bake the cake, too, so ridiculous was her request. (When I came to, I frosted it anyway.)

These are the sorts of people I’ve had to deal with my entire life. People who – I swear this is true – finish their meals with fruit.

Have you ever heard of anything more grotesque?

Over the years, we’ve learned to deal with our differences. I force feed them cakes and pies and tarts with fruit surreptitiously hiding inside. They, in turn, stock up on biscuits and chocolates and cake in anticipation of my arrival. The last time I visited my aunt, she came back from the grocery store with this:

We polished that sucker off. I had some help from the wee one.

-

It was a rather exceptional vanilla cake with caramel frosting. It broke my heart. Besides being one of the best grocery-store-cakes I’d ever eaten, that cake was the embodiment (en-cake-iment?) of my aunt’s affection. It was something she’d never have purchased for herself, but she bought it because she knew it would make me happy. If you ever see me getting teary over a dessert, it is because of all the things I attach to it (or because you’ve given me too small a piece).

My family members and I have all devised reasons for why we’re so different on the dessert front. They say it’s because of our different nationalities. I say it’s because they’re nuts. We’re probably both a little right.

Whenever they see me ingesting sugar (which is often) their response is always, “Oh, Geraldina likes sweets. It’s because she’s American.”

There’s probably some truth to that. I am American, after all. That might be why I flit around looking for glucose like a demented, wide-bottomed hummingbird. Had I grown up in Italy, my veins might not be so full of fondant. My liver might not be enrobed in chocolate. My intestines might not be made of taffy. And I’d likely fit into all those teeny-tiny Italian jeans I saw in window displays all over Rome. But alas, I was one of the few people in my family born in the U.S.A. Land of the frosted. Home of the brulee.

No other country does desserts the way we do. We are excessive and innovative and superfluous. Desserts here are not considered a success until they could put an elephant into a diabetic shock after one serving. And no place I’ve found embodies the American view on desserts more than Led Zeppole (we’ll address the brilliance of the name later). First, let’s take a look at the menu posted outside:

Probably-true-fact: the night that we ate fried Oreos, someone, somewhere, died of starvation.

-

It was magical. Nutritional black holes like Oreos and pbjs on Wonder Bread, batter dipped, deep-fried, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Nay, this was beyond magic. This was America.

It was a hot sticky night in Manhattan when we stumbled upon Led Zeppole and decided to patronize the establishment on the name alone (if you can resist a restaurant with a punny name, you are a stronger person than I). Joining us was our friend Tom, a Brit who recently moved to New York from London, and some of his colleagues.

Even though a small group of teenagers had taken up residence at several of the tables, giving the establishment a rather Lord of the Flies chicness, we were not deterred. The decor on the walls was nothing short of brilliant.

The teens probably never knew that before Eddie Murphy starting making terrible movies, he was really, really funny.

-

The teenagers thought that the painting of Jim Morrison in the corner was Che. I was slightly alarmed, but you know what? They kind of look alike.

"It's Martin Sheen." / "That's President Kennedy, you idiot."

-

Rand may have gotten a little excessive in ordering dessert. He just started doing down the list, asking for one of everything. After all, we had to show Tom a good time. What better way to do that than with a friend peanut butter and jelly sandwich?

It tasted like a really sinful jelly donut. My heart might have stopped while eating it.

-

We also got an order of zeppole, the fried Italian pastry for which the establishment was named. Sadly, they were not even remotely reminiscent of what zeppole should be – a crispy, light, golden brown doughnut. Instead, we were treated to warmed balls of dough, rolled around in powdered sugar. We ate them anyway. Later, I’d note that I had powdered sugar all over my person and under my nose. Combined with the obvious junk food high I was on, I am fairly sure I looked like I had ingested several pounds of cocaine. Which I’ve never done, but I’m guessing probably doesn’t feel all that different than eating a plate of undercooked zeppole.
-

I think these are they. In the end, it all looked and tasted remarkably the same.

-

We were blessed with  a little downtime between our courses of fried excess. Everything at Led Zeppole is made-to-order, so you have a few moments to digest and reflect on the epicureal sins you’d just committed.
-

Which is what we were doing here. Probably.

-

Plus, you have the chance to come up with other punny names of dessert stands bases on musical groups. Names like …

• Buns and Roses
• REO Snackwagon
• Kool-Aid and the Gang
• Tom Petty and the Jawbreakers
• Milli Vanilla
• Cake
• Frankie Goes to Pastry School
• A Flock of Cupcakes

And then the last course arrived. Fried Oreo cookies. Which makes eating a regular Oreo seem like you are noshing on an apple.
-

I can feel my arteries clogging just looking at it.

-

After that course of fried, dough-enrobed snacks, we started to feel ill, and figured that was probably a good sign to call it quits. Sadly, Tom didn’t partake in any of it. He’s not a big dessert eater, and he can’t have gluten or dairy. In that respect, Led Zeppole may not have been the best dessert choice (and also because two of us were passed out drooling in the street). But we wanted to show him something excessive and innovative and nutritionally vacant. Something truly and blissfully American. We meant well – we just made terrible decisions. Which, really, could have been the theme of the night (later, still on a sugar rush, I drove on the streets of Manhattan for the first time. Twas not the best decision I’ve made).

I have to hand it to the Tom, though -  he was a good sport, even though he spent the entire night looking at us like we were bonkers.
-

Answer: American willpower.

-

As a dessert-loving American, it’s not the first time a European has looked at me like that. Someday, Tom will understand. He might even buy me a cake. Until then, I simply replied to him the way I do to my relatives.

“U.S.A!” I scream, pumping my fist into the air. Again and again and again.

—————

P.S.  – I won’t lie – it is hard to read about that night and not feel a little queasy. My heart felt heavy as I read this post, and I suspect it wasn’t just because my arteries were still clogged, but because deep-frying desserts makes me feel a bit too entitled. So I decided to donate to Northwest Harvest. My heart feels a tad lighter. Instead of indulging the next time I crave a dessert, I might just donate again. I suspect it will be good for my cholesterol and my soul.

I know, I know – you think I’d have gotten it out of my system after the thousand odd words I dedicated to it last week, right? But you’d also probably presume that at some point, I’d also have gotten tired of eating all these sweets, much less writing about them.

And yet, I haven’t. My passions clearly die hard.

I don't remember what was going on here, but I suspect it was adorable.

-

Consequently, I must ask you to forgive me if your tolerance for desserts – and for reading about them – is not as high as mine. And I must ask you to not mind that I am about to jump around in time a bit to tell you about Thomas Sweet – a small chain of ice cream shops with several locations in Jersey. It may seem odd that I seemed to go almost immediately from San Francisco to Princeton, but in reality, we did just that. I think a day or two separated these trips, and they’ve been whirred together in my mind, not unlike the Blend-in, the signature dessert at Thomas Sweet. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We popped into their Nassau Street location in Princeton, as we happened to be visiting family in the area, and apparently I needed one more reason to be sad that I didn’t attend an ivy league school (Harvard has Sweet Cupcakes. Princeton has Thomas Sweet. To be fair, though, the University of Washington had Rand and a full-scholarship waiting for me. I shouldn’t knock it).

Thomas Sweet is not swank. The staff is a gaggle of young people who don’t look old enough to legally work without a note from their parents. It’s surprisingly unpretentious – the flavors are candy-laced confections that a kid with too much time and too little adult supervision might come up with. And that’s fine with me, because children are GENIUSES when it comes to sugar (Huh. Maybe that’s why the folks serving ice cream at Thomas Sweet are so ridiculously young-looking).
-

I got something called “Jersey Shore.” Contrary to the name, it did not taste of body oil and hair gel, with candy-coated steroids sprinkled throughout. Instead, it was salted caramel ice cream with chocolate pieces and a caramel ribbon. It stuck to both my ribs and my fillings.

My cavities hurt just thinking about it.

-

Rand got a Blend-in – smooth ice cream blended with a topping. It’s not unlike a Blizzard, though apparently Thomas Sweet was serving their iteration of the treat years before Dairy Queen. Plus, the device that Thomas Sweet uses to create their Blend-ins is far more impressive that anything I’ve seen at DQ. It looks like an enormous drill.

The splattered ice cream kind of looks like carnage.

-

He chose coffee ice cream with Oreo.

The blending resulted in a very Blizzard-like texture.

 -

It wasn’t anything particularly special – it’s decent (if incredibly sweet) ice cream. Apparently there are better options in Princeton like Halo Pub and The Bent Spoon (I’ve yet to try either, but let’s face it – I probably will, and likely on the same day), but I suspect I’ll go back to Thomas Sweet. Why? Because, according to a yellowed newspaper clipping on the wall, Bruce Springsteen can occasionally be seen there.

YEAH. This is the ice cream that The Boss eats. DO YOU NEED ANOTHER REASON? (Answer: NO).

The article said that Springsteen “occasionally drops in for a cone at Thomas Sweet” but I misread it and thought it said that he “occasionally drops a cone at Thomas Sweet”. And truthfully, I could not think of anything sadder than Bruce Springsteen dropping an ice cream cone.

Imagine his ruggedly handsome brow furrowing as he stares at his scoop, quickly melting on the ground in front of him. It’s heart-breaking, really. I can picture it clearly: being the considerate gentleman that he OBVIOUSLY is, he’d bend over and start cleaning it up …

And I have officially lost my train of thought by thinking about Bruce Springsteen bending over.

Umm …

Rand: "So as revenge for her always prattling on about Springsteen's butt, I'm going to eat her ice cream."

-

So … yeah. Ice cream. Summer. Something something tight jeans.

Hmm. Maybe it’s not ice cream that I haven’t gotten out of my system. Maybe, once again, it’s Jersey boys.

Because in the few days that I spent there, I ate a lot of it. I can process dairy far better than the next gal (particularly if the next gal is, say, my friend Giselle, who’s entirely allergic to the stuff) but by the end of my trip I was a farty, bloated mess.

I mean, more so.

Of course, the ice cream was not entirely to blame. There was also pizza, and pasta, and copious quantities of cheese. But mostly, it was the frozen confection that did me in.

In spite of all of that, I regret absolutely nothing. It was a moral act, gobbling up all that ice cream. I sacrificed myself so that others might live without crippling gastrointestinal pain as a result of downing a gallon or so of frozen, churned milk. My work is still not finished, but I will share my findings with you, with the caveat that these results are not entirely conclusive. There are more sprinkles to pile on, more scoops to lick, more cones to gobble.

That sounded dirty. I did not mean for it to.

Our first stop in the Ice-Cream-Capades (see what I did there? If not, look again, because IT WAS BRILLIANT) was Humphry Slocombe’s. I’d heard about the place before, and had wanted to check it out for months. The flavors I’d read about were so far beyond the salted caramels and strawberry-basalmics that once passed for innovative in the world of ice cream. They offer concoctions like “Secret Breakfast” (a mix of bourbon and cornflakes), prosciutto, and foie gras.

I was positively itching to try it. I love dessert. I love dessert as a vehicle to consuming meat and booze even more. And yes, that includes the foie flavor. I’ve never truly gotten into the foie debate on my blog. I prefer instead to focus on all the other evil things that I’m not presently partaking in.

Like clubbing baby seals. Sometime in the future I’m planning on running an entirely senatorial campaign on the fact that I’ve never beaten one to death.

I added "yet" because I like to keep my options open.

-

It was a chilly evening when we found Humphry Slocombe’s, rather by accident. I had mentioned I wanted to visit the shop, and while we were searching for our dinner spot, we happened to walk right passed it.

Some small part of me wants to tell you that we headed to our lovely dinner, undeterred, and then came back to eat ice cream. Because that, I think, would have been the responsible thing to do. The truth is, though, that Rand and I got ice cream first. Before dinner. And we were able to justify it thusly: We’re grown-ups. People are always down on adulthood, but if you swing it right, it’s a truly magical experience.

So we got ice cream first, and pizza later.

The line at Humphry Slocombe’s was out the door at 8:30pm on a weeknight.

-

We had no idea what the flavors were, no idea if standing in this long line was to be worth it. Once inside, though, I began to suspect that maybe this was my kind of establishment.

Yay! I love me some fetal kitten soup.

-

Rand and I inspected the flavors that were on display. I’d have liked to have sampled much more than we did, but the line was long, and I didn’t want to hold things up. The flavors were interesting, sure, but I was hoping for a bit more exoticism. Not a single meat-flavored ice cream was on the menu that night.

-

I got two scoops: McEvoy olive oil, and brown sugar with fennel. The ice cream was smooth and rich, the flavors surprisingly mild and elegant. It’s like Ben & Jerry’s gone classy. The olive oil had a slight citrusy tartness to it, and the fennel was much more floral than I would have imagined (I had anticipated a robust licorice flavor. It was barely reminiscent of that). I can’t remember what Rand ordered, but perhaps that’s unimportant. His face really says it all on this one:

Holy crap, this is adorable. If I haven't said so before, I highly recommend marrying Rand.

-

By the time we finally got to dinner, we may have been giddy with sugar. The waitress at the restaurant looked at us warily. Perhaps she could tell, by the ice cream smeared on our faces, what we had done.

“DON’T JUDGE US!” I may have screamed in reply (the details are hazy). “ONE DAY I WILL BE A SENATOR!” I will win on an anti-seal-clubbing campaign.

—————

Next up on our ice cream tour was Bi-Rite Creamery. This time, we had our friend Lauren in tow. She lives in San Francisco, and is kind enough to indulge all our gastronomical whims. Plus, she is a great stand-in for me when I am taking photos: she is small and Italian and has a tendency to say whatever pops into her head.

She is also wearing my hat.

-

We’d been to Bi-Rite once before, so we knew to expect a long line. Fortunately, Lauren was able to keep Rand company while I ran around snapping photos.

The line went down the street.

-

And around the corner.

-

We finally made it inside. The flavors spread out before us were creative but not nearly as “out there” as Humphry Slocombe’s: creme fraiche, toasted banana, malted vanilla, and yes, salted caramel and balsamic strawberry. It was experimental, but still familiar.

-

I opted for salted caramel and snickerdoodle. They paired nicely together.

-

It felt more like dessert than Humphry’s – sweeter, and chock full of candy pieces or cookies or caramel swirls. We enjoyed it a lot. So much, in fact, THAT WE ALMOST DIED.

Well, not really, but kind of.

We were crossing the street, distracted by the deliciousness of our ice cream, when a woman in her vehicle started backing up out of her parking spot on the street, and into the crosswalk. Specifically, it was headed straight towards Lauren.

Now, I’ve always liked to think that I’d be pretty good in an emergency. I’m not saying I could foil a bank robbery, but maybe I could tackle a purse-snatcher. Unfortunately, I found that’s not the case. Lauren was right next to me as we crossed the street, and as I saw the car backing up towards her, I didn’t push her out of the way, or rush her along, or even shout, “CAR!”

Nope. Instead, I stood there, in a deer-in-the-headlights fashion, and gently hugged Lauren to me. Yeah. I hugged her. I imagine I have a great future as an ineffectual superhero named Cuddle Girl. I won’t stop you from getting robbed, but I’ll hug you after the fact. Or possibly during. That might make you feel a little better, right?

Anywho, I’m pleased to report that Lauren was fine. The vehicle merely nudged us (Rand did a great job of banging on the trunk and screaming at the driver, who drove off without EVEN BOTHERING TO CHECK ON US), but in the process, Lauren dropped her spoon.

The lone casualty of our excursion.

-

She did not let this deter her.

She's totally going to kill me for this picture, but I think she looks like an adorable, demented rabbit.

-

It was all a testament to how good Bi-Rite is. I can think of the tagline now: “So delicious, you’ll almost get hit by a car.” Catchy, right?

—————

Like I said, my results were inconclusive at best. I’d recommended both Bi-Rite and Humphry’s to anyone who happens upon them. The lines are long, but they move quickly, and both are a fairly unique experience: boutique, artisan ice cream at a reasonable price. It just depends upon your mood. Humphry Slocombe’s is an experiment. It’s the sort of place where you’d take a date, but probably not the kids. You might not like all the flavors, but you’ll enjoy the experience. Relatively speaking, Bi-Rite is more traditional. The flavors are familiar, even if you’ve never seen them in ice cream form. It’s a place to get dessert that actually tastes like dessert.

Is one better than the other? It’s tough to say. I’ll have to return a few more times, in the name of research. Though I might add a few bike reflectors to my clothes, just in case.