Must. Eat. Everything. (The Astoria Sunday Market Edition.)
Friends, let me tell you something: steroids are terrible.
Many of you are probably wondering why a perfect physical specimen such as myself would need to resort to steroids in the first place. After all, my body is temple (albeit one dedicated to sloth and cupcakes). The answer is, simply, brain surgery. Steroids are commonly given to folks to stop their pesky brains from swelling up and killing them, post-operation.
In this respect, they are wonderful, because gobs of us walking around today wouldn’t be here without them. But they’ve got tons of downsides to them. They cause bizarre parts of your body to puff up without warning (in my case, my face and stomach have been stretched to their limitations. I look like a female Dwight Schrute), they send you off on an emotional rollar coaster not seen since you were in high school, and they make you break out like crazy.
I also have a sneaking suspicion that underneath every new zit that has arisen on my jaw, chest, and arms is a teeny tiny black hair waiting to break the surface. When that dark day finally takes place, I will hopefully be miles from any other humans, deep in the woods, hiding under the safety of a snuggie with a pint of ice cream.
Or five pints of ice cream. Because that’s the other thing about steroids: they make you hungry. Like, crazy hungry. Over the last week, I’ve gained 5 pounds as a result of delivering every single edible morsel within arms’ reach to my mouth (occasionally said edible morsels are not, in fact, edible. I’m pretty sure I licked a piece of dryer lint off my chin and what I thought was a cookie crumb may have actually been a dessicated booger).
Some of you are probably going to argue that this is the status quo, and to those folks I will say STOP JUDGING ME (Sorry. Mood swing). I MUST EAT. It is strange and odd, because usually I only feel this way about cake, and not say, every single food group, ever.
And so, in honor of me mashing every single piece of food I can find into my mouth, I’ve collected some photos from our last trip to Astoria … during which Rand and I mashed every single piece of food we could find into our mouths at the Astoria Sunday Market.
It may not have been our proudest moment. It wasn’t always flattering. But damn it, it was honest. And as I shove yet another salted caramel into my mouth before the noon hour, I know that at least I’m being sincere. Or something.
It begins as all good things do: with empanadas.
Continuing the filled-pastry theme of the morning, we follow up our empanada with a hand pie.
Rather inexplicably, Rand looks pained to eat it. Or perhaps he was just tired of me snapping photos in his face.
And, of course, retribution was swift to follow …
You know what? That last photo wasn’t quite unflattering enough. We can do better. I know it.
The viscious aftermath:
You know what? This feels mean-spirited. I blame the steroids. I should end on a high note. A photo of my husband looking unspeakably gorgeous while injesting something.
Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a jar of nutella with my name written hastily on it.
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