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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).
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.
Midsummer in New York, the heat bounced off the buildings and the pavement, straight onto us.
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It’s mid-January, and I find myself thinking about ice cream.
Is it possible to make something truly wonderful (and fattening) even more wonderful (and also more fattening)? Of course. This is America, damn it. Where we don’t take “no” or “that’s irresponsible from a dietary standpoint” for an answer. Where we take our dessert with an extra side of dessert.
Behold:
Somewhere, someone is starving to death. </seriousness>
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These are the cones that Rand and I spotted at an ice cream shop in Pennsylvania that was graciously named “Pigadilly’s“. If the extra $1.50 price tag looks a little steep, remember: innovation and genius do not come cheap. You aren’t just paying for a cone – you are investing in what makes American great.
And also investing in what makes America fat. But let’s focus on the great part.
How have I let so much time pass without telling you about these?
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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?
On occasion, I like to think of myself as a badass.
I’m not, mind you, but I like to think of myself as one. I also like to think of myself as elegant, demure, clear-skinned, and clever. Compared to those far greater delusions “badass” doesn’t seem so unreasonable. Especially when it comes to food.
A few weeks ago, I stood on my soapbox and prattled on about this precise subject. How I fearlessly gobbled guinea pig in Peru, and how in the past I’d tackled tripe without thinking about it, polished off pig’s feet with panache. Food, it seems, is the one area of my life in which I’m not a coward.
In fact, when it comes to cuisine, I may actually be a badass. A little bit, at least.
Hey folks – my apologies for the blog being so thin lately. I’ve been on the road – a lot – and I can’t seem to justify spending my days sitting in a hotel room blogging. We’ll return to daily posts next week, I promise. In the meantime, read on about Peruvian foods you must try. And for your own safety, do not consume this post on an empty stomach.
As some of you may have noticed, I don’t really do much research on my travel destinations, except when it comes to cuisine. I left for Peru with a vague understanding of who created Machu Picchu, but I was able to rattle off the local desserts like an expert. This concerns me slightly. I have this fear that, should aliens ever abduct me (and let’s face it: this is a highly probable likelihood) they will ask me all sorts of questions about other parts of my planet. And most of the time, I WILL HAVE NO CLUE WHAT TO SAY right up until the topic of food comes up, at which point I will be some sort of savant. Governmental structure of Peru? No clue. But they have these fantastic dulce de leche sandwich cookies called alfajores (I’ve eaten enough in one sitting to risk diabetic shock). Iceland? I can’t remember anything about my trip there except for that yogurt dessert they kept feeding us. And my usually reply to when anyone mentions the U.K. is to drool and mumble “sticky toffee pudding” with a glazed look in my eye.
