A Food Fight in White
I can’t wear white. Not because it doesn’t work with my coloring (it does), not because it makes me look fat (more on this later), but because EVERY time I wear white I spill food on myself and permanently ruin that particular clothing item. For years I have tried, but my closet (and trash can) are full of beloved white shirts covered in permanent stains. I know what you are thinking, maybe you should slow down Piggy and be a little more careful when you eat. Aah, but there is the rub! I am a VERY slow eater. In fact, my husband, whom eats every meal as if the world is ending in 10 seconds, is finished with his meal a full 30 minutes before I am finished with mine. Though, at times, I think he eats his food so fast just so he has an excuse to pick at my meal. And, further evidence that I CAN get through a meal without wearing half of it on my chest is that my blue, black, green, etc. shirts are for the most part, stain free. There is an errant red wine drop or salsa drip on a few items, but nothing that ruins the shirts. I have spent many years analyzing why this happens and I am at a loss. It is a riddle wrapped in an enigma. I have just come to the conclusion that if I am going to be eating (or drinking) I can’t wear white. What follows is how I ruined some of my favorite white tops and a little rant about white jeans just because I need to get it off my chest…
I first realized I had a problem with white in high school. I would carefully plan my outfit (it was high school!) and leave the house admiring my white shirt with the lacy Peter Pan collar only to come home and have my Mom ask, “What happened?!” That Peter Pan collar was ruined when I dropped a hot greasy Tommy’s french fry (if you have tried these, get them with extra seasoned salt, they are delicious!) covered in ketchup right onto my stomach. I was aiming for my mouth. I don’t know how it happened, but I went back to class with a very wet (tried to get stain out) and very dirty shirt. I was dying with embarrassment as I walked through the halls and just knew everyone was staring. The stain never came out and the shirt was thrown out. This pattern continued through high school. I kept trying to wear white and kept spilling food on myself. I dribbled Diet Coke down my chest, I dropped full pizza slices (cheese side down, of course) in my lap, I dragged me sleeves through salad dressing and on and on. So much so, that one of my high school boyfriends decided he was going to “fix” my problem. He had observed, so he thought, that I didn’t hold my mouth right when I took a bite of food or a drink. He actually coached me! Did it work? No. I still was the big dribbler.
The problem followed me to college. I was obsessed with the white Gap pocket T-shirt and loved to wear it tucked in (tucking in is another thing I have given up) to jeans. When I wore this ensemble I thought I looked cool and chic. Coffee stains, red wine splashes and marinara sauce dribbles are neither cool nor chic, so I spent a small fortune replacing every Gap white pocket T-shirt I ruined. Yet I kept trying. In fact, I have pictures of myself in this very outfit from a college house party. If you go through all of them, you can see the before and after of the big spill. There is one with me smiling in a pristine white shirt holding my boyfriends hand. Next I am posing by the food table, shirt still clean, trying to look cool. All the others, well, I am looking uncomfortable and trying, but failing, to hide a stain the size of a frisbee in the middle of my shirt. Right after the food table shot, I had gone in for a huge bite of the seven layer dip and before I could get the chip to my mouth, the beans, sour cream, salsa, etc. had fallen down the front of my shirt. I now believe that supplying myself with new white shirts was a large part of Gap’s big comeback.
Unfortunately, the problem did not end in college. I shudder to think of the many business meetings I attended with my crisp white shirt or fashionable white business blouse covered in that morning’s coffee or mustard from lunch. In fact, I had to give a big presentation a while back and told my boss, “I won’t wear a white shirt.” Her response? “Good.” Damn, the secret was out. What is strange is that even other people spilled things on MY white shirts. One Fourth of July, I had my parents over for Mexican food, drinks, ice cream and general frivolity. My Mom had Alzheimer’s and loved both ice cream and Mexican food. Because we weren’t going out I figured what the hell and put on one of the few unstained white shirts I owned (Okay, I confess, I hadn’t worn it yet). It was a really cute white polo. Not the Ralph Lauren kind, but the ones that are cut for girls and are shorter so you can wear them untucked. We sat around the table eating Mexican food and sipping wine. At this point, a full two hours into the day, I was still stain free. I was giddy. Had I finally broken the curse? Could I once again boldly go into a clothing store and say, “I will take it in white” ? Pride does cometh before a fall. Exactly fifteen minutes later, as Mom finished her third Drumstick, she got up and hugged me. Nice. But her hands were covered in chocolate and ice cream, which of course, ended up all over my shirt. The curse continues…
My final white shirt story happened on my wedding day. My husband to be and I had both been married before, so we wanted a small at the courthouse ceremony. My Mom had passed away earlier that same year and I wanted to wear something that reminded me of her. About five years prior she had given me a very expensive white shirt. It was an open weave with intricate opaque butterflies woven in randomly. All white and not my style. At the time I thanked her, put it in my closet and didn’t think about it again. But when deciding what to wear for my wedding day, I realized not only would it be a little piece of my Mom, but it also would be perfect to get married in, well except for the fact that it was white. So I made it through pre-ceremony drinks without a spill and was feeling confident as we went out for a post ceremony dinner. At the end of dinner, still stain free, I reached over to pick up my bouquet and spilled half a glass of red wine down the front of me. We rushed home and I soaked it in club soda. It ALMOST all came out. I saved the shirt, for sentimental reasons, but will not be wearing it again any time soon. I have now been married almost four years and my husband now gives me a look when he finds me fondling white shirts in a clothing store. “Look how cute,” I will say. “Fine, but you will just spill on it,” he will answer. Yup, I will. So I slowly back away from the white shirts and go toward the black section.
There it is, my sordid past (and present) history with white shirts. Now, the rant on white jeans I promised. I don’t like them. In fact, I hate them. Maybe it is because I was a server at California Pizza Kitchen back in the day. Before they wore the current uniform, we wore white jeans, a white button down, full black apron and very ugly yellow tie. All the girls, including me, hated them. They weren’t flattering and showed dirt. Just imagine if you will, me of the big spill, serving food and wine in all white. I just thanked God for that long black apron. Now, apparently, white jeans are “in” and all the cool kids are wearing them. No. I won’t. I don’t care how many Old Navy ads I see where I ALMOST think, wow, they DO look cute, because then I come back to reality and know that I will feel like there is a spotlight on my butt and that said butt will more than likely be covered in a stain from something I sat in… Plus, I do think I would have some very serious CPK flashbacks and they are never good. The upside of all this? I never have to concern myself with the whole “white after Labor Day” conundrum.
Valentine’s Day-Love, Chocolate & Cheese
I have always had mixed emotions about Valentine’s Day. Maybe because I have spent more Valentine’s Day as a single person (singles awareness day?) than as a couple. Maybe because all the really cheesy romantic stuff that is shoved down our throats turns my stomach, because, well, it is NOT me. Hell, I still refuse to watch Titanic OR The Notebook. Or, maybe it is due to the fact, that I, like most women, really DO like to get flowers, chocolates and a nice dinner out. So, you can see where I am torn. Do I give into my soft under-belly that wants that box of chocolates or do I allow my very cynical hard exterior to sarcastically pooh-pooh Valentine’s Day and all the over-wrought sentiments for which it stands? Well, I have decided to do both! Here it goes…
My soft under-belly thinks there is absolutely nothing wrong with an evening that involves flowers, good food, wine, chocolate, cheese (both the edible & a little figurative) and sex. I mean, really, what is wrong with that? My husband is great with this, he simply comes out and asks me, “What kind of chocolates do you like?” I know there are some “romantics” (see Titanic sentence above) that would think that was horrible. Not me. I don’t want to be saddled with the wrong chocolates! By the way, I always ask for dark chocolate-nuts and chews. He also always buys me flowers and gives me a very nice card with just enough sentimentality for me to handle. But even better, he buys me cheese! Yes, cheese. Two or three really ripe kinds that he knows I adore. After nibbling on the cheese, we will go out to dinner. At dinner we will drink some great wine and then, if not too full (it has happened!) we will have a romantic evening together (read-sex). I am looking forward to it…
My hard cynical exterior thinks this is all rubbish. That why not get rid of the Valentine’s Day aspect of the aforementioned evening entirely? And simply have an evening that is a celebration of cheese, chocolate, food, wine and sex. No heavy romantic notions needed. No expectations that lead to bitter disappointments. Just a nice night together. My cynical self has a good point. And this is the part of me that worked in restaurants on more Valentine’s Days than I can count. That saw the hypocrisy, falseness and pain (yes, pain) of this so-called Day of Love. Husbands out with their mistresses, women going out with men just to go out and unhappy couples simply going through the motions. If you want to put a magnifying glass on anything that is wrong with your relationship, Valentine’s Day will do it.
The problem as I see it is the pressure we put on ourselves around Valentine’s Day. When we are single, we feel pressure to either go out with our girlfriends (we don’t need a man!) or stay home and take a bath, drink wine, etc (STILL, we don’t need a man!). When we are dating somebody new, we tend to use that first Valentine’s Day as a barometer for the entire relationship. If it goes well, he could be the one. If it goes badly, well then, we are immediately on the phone with our girlfriends dissecting and analyzing EVERY moment of the evening. Desperately trying to figure out what he MEANT by giving us daisies or NOT giving us a card… If we are in a long-term relationship, we torture ourselves with thoughts of, “Will he ask me to marry him tonight?” And then once again over-analyze every detail with our girlfriends if he does or if he doesn’t. If we are married, we pressure ourselves with how we look, is he still attracted to us and the need to have mind-blowing sex. We need to stop the insanity! And simply accept ourselves and/or our partners. Trust me, Valentine’s Day is NOT the day to make any major relationship decisions. For most of us, emotions and expectations are just too high.
Besides, if I had judged the future of my very happy relationship with my husband by our first Valentine’s Day together, I would have thought that we would never have worked and that he was a jerk extraordinaire. Because the first Valentine’s Day I spent with my husband was a disaster. We had decided no gifts. Just cards and dinner. When we got to the restaurant, the hostess hugged my husband and then proceeded to inappropriately fawn all over him. When I could finally peel her off of him, we were seated. I gave him my card and he became angry, saying, “We said no cards!” I argued. He threw his napkin on the table and stood up, threatening to leave. He didn’t, but, well, a damper was put on the evening. We decided to stop at the casino before going home. He played so long, I started falling asleep IN the casino. Finally we get home and he says, “I don’t know if I want to be with you. I think I need a month to figure this out.” I can’t write here what I said back to him for fear of psychologically scarring my readers. Suffice it to say, it involved the “F” word and many other expletives. A few weeks later, he got down on his knee and asked me to marry him.
We now laugh about that Valentine’s Day. I now try not to put so much pressure on myself (and him) on this holiday and simply enjoy it. This year we will eat cheese and chocolates, exchange cards and go out to our favorite Italian restaurant. Then, if we have not eaten too much, we will have a romantic evening together. Even if we do over-indulge (you know, get home and finally exhale as you peel off the pants cutting into your stomach), I know we will have many chances for romantic evenings in the future. And if Valentine’s Day is REALLY all about love, then that is how it should be… Accepting, light-hearted and full of laughter. And cheese, wine and chocolate, of course. Happy Valentine’s Day!
Shut Up & Hand Me Some Fries! The Joys of PMS
Hey ladies (always wanted to say that)! If you are like me, once a month, for about five days, you turn into an emotional, angry, eating machine. Also known as PMS. If you are a woman who is lucky enough not to suffer from this, then God bless you and really, I don’t want to hear how your periods, and the days before, are no different for you than any other time of the month. Especially, when I am in full PMS mode. You know, bloated, tender swollen breasts and ready to kill or cry at a moments notice. Well, because, you, my non-affected friend, may be the subject of my wrath. And that would make me feel bad… In a few days, when I am thinking clearly again. So, in case you haven’t guessed this blog will be all about PMS and the foods that can, temporarily at least, make things a LITTLE better. And men, if you are reading this, good. You may get some insight into what we woman go through on a monthly basis.
When I am PMS I feel like I could eat the world. Literally. Just season it with a little salt and I am ready. My hunger has no bounds. And what am I hungry for? Grease, salt and sugar. Can’t get enough of the stuff. In my youth, silly girl that I was, I used to try to fight and deny this hunger. What happened? I became nearly homicidal and realized it was better to have those french fries than to lose three friends and ostracize my partner every month. Now, I eat. And eat a lot. Days of nothing but fries, pizza and See’s chocolates. Nights in front of the television weeping over a Lifetime “Woman in Peril” movie stuffing my face with grilled cheese sandwiches. Yes, sandwiches, the plurality is NOT a typo. I can quickly move from weeping woman to angry bitch. Then it is me ranting at the, fill in the blank, _______________ (television, car in front of me, cats, husband, moon…). All the while I am ranting, I am shoving into my mouth potato chips and red vines. Ugh! No, I am not proud, just honest. It is during these angry times that I feel like the Stay-Puff marshmallow man from Ghostbusters. My bloated fingers struggling to open the bag of grated cheddar cheese, so I can make a HUGE quesadilla, while angrily mumbling about how my husband didn’t replace the empty toilet paper roll with a new one. Then, just as quickly I am crying again.
What men and those lucky ones that don’t suffer from PMS may not know, is that PMS hurts. No, not cramps like a period, but aches. Your lower back aches, your boobs hurt and your jeans are painfully cutting you in half due to the extra 5-10 pounds of water you are carrying around. Yes, you can take Midol (doesn’t do a thing for me). Or a pain reliever, sure. I drink. To be more exact, I drink red wine. What is strange is that alcohol affects me so much differently when I am in the midst of PMS. One drink and I am buzzed. Two and I am down right drunk. But, if I stick with one, it helps with the aches and can take the edge of my horrible mood. Bonus is that it goes wonderfully with the loaf of sourdough bread I am ripping apart, dipping into Boursin cheese and devouring.
Before I get a lot of advice and “help” from the professionals, let me tell you what I know. I know that exercise helps. And I exercise regularly all month. I know calcium and B vitamins help. I take those all month as well. I drink more than eight glasses of water every day. And I still suffer.
What is a woman, and those that love her, to do? I don’t know about you, but I have learned to accept those few days a month when I turn into an evil Sybil. I am quick to apologize and to warn. I now tell me husband, “I have PMS. I feel like Bloaty the Clown Woman and I REALLY can’t talk right now.” Good husband that he is, he runs from the room. I remind myself that however angry, sad and fat I feel now, I will feel better in a few days. Of course, I also stopped trying to deny my hunger and now eat. In fact, I am getting ready to get out of these jeans (I haven’t taken a deep breath since 8 this morning) and put on my baggiest sweats, eat saltines with mayonnaise until the pizza I ordered arrives and put on a Real Housewives marathon.
2012 – End of the World? I Better Start Eating!
Okay, I am sure you have heard by now, the Mayan calendar ENDS in December 2012. What does this mean? Well apparently that on that date, not only does the calendar end, but also the world. Do I believe it? I don’t know, but even if there is a slight chance, I need to start eating. Think about it, would you want to be watching the world end in December with a SALAD as the last thing you ate? Or worse, facing the end with a year’s worth of diet meals under your belt? Not me. If the world is ending, I want to eat all of my favorite foods and then eat some more. So here is just SOME of the foods I plan to consume this year… Before you judge, would you deny a woman her last meal? I didn’t think so!
There are restaurants that I MUST visit before the end. I have to go to Alejo’s in Venice Beach, CA and eat their spaghetti pomodoro. With it I will eat as much bread and garlic infused oil as I can shove in my mouth. I also must visit Johnnie’s New York Pizza. I will feast on garlic knots, N.Y. pizza by the slice (plain cheese) and take a spinach calzone to go. I will spend happy hour at the Canal Club. Savoring a brie and grape quesadilla, swooning over the cucumber salad and stuffing sushi into my mouth by the pound. Will also waddle down the street to Shutter’s on the Beach. Sit in the lobby sipping a VERY expensive zinfandel, watch the waves crash on the sand and eat bowl after bowl of their home-made potato chips. I also must eat at Don Antonio’s in West L.A. I will weep as I eat my enormous burrito stuffed with beans, rice, guacamole, tomato and served covered in enchilada sauce and cheese. Closer to home, I will visit Quince in Jerome. Drown my sorrows in the ghost chili salsa and over the top guacamole, then indulge in not one, but two roasted wild mushroom quesadillas. Then I will travel to Flagstaff to eat thin crust pizza, Caesar salad and bruschetta at Oregano’s. I would hit the road again and travel to Scottsdale to eat breakfast, lunch and dinner at Chompie’s. Eggs over easy with home fries and a bagel for breakfast. Fowl Ball Reuben for lunch. And for dinner? Just a dozen warm Bialy with all flavors of cream cheese should do it. Then, well because it is the end of the world, I would really start traveling.
First France. I will drink very expensive French champagne right out of the bottle while sitting at the top of the Eiffel Tower. I would then don all black, find a cafe and eat nothing but fabulous bread and french cheese. And drinking tons of red wine, of course. Take a short trip to Provence and eat lovely fresh vegetables and perfectly cooked fish in a French garden. Then I will hop on a jet to Italy. I will eat my way through… Pizza, pasta, fresh seafood, bread, wine, olive oil… I also must make a stop in Greece. Laze hillside and devour grilled pita, hummus and eggplant. And yes, I will drink Grappa.
There is also foods I just want to eat. Like anything fried. Bring it on. Fried mushrooms, cheese, onion rings, potatoes, basically ANYTHING. Also cheese. I will start melting it on everything from tater tots (fried AND cheesy) to bowls of pasta. Yes, even vegetables. Bring me artichokes, beautifully grilled peppers, avocado, heirloom tomato and fresh green beans. And my first love pizza. I will have to eat at least one slice daily with a side of cheese covered garlic bread.
I can’t forget the wine. We all “save” special wines for a celebration. Not anymore. Drink up. No more moderately priced, drinkable wines for this girl. No way, I am drinking top shelf only. BV Tapestry, Mayacamas, Heitz Cellar, Veuve Cliquot… And I will start drinking with breakfast. Why not? The world is ending, right!
Sweets. Can’t forget those. Boxes of See’s candy, high quality dark chocolate and tons of Swedish Fish.
Reading over my list makes me giggle. Because I am always the one preaching moderation and health. I sound down right gluttonous. But really, what if it IS the end of the world? What would you eat? More importantly, what would you want to say and to whom? What person or people would you spend your time with? And how would you spend that time? Grateful and appreciating every moment or bitter and upset because the world is ending? Maybe the Mayan calendar can teach us all a life lesson. Live as if the world were ending. Savor every moment, tell the people you love, that you love them and laugh as loudly and as much as possible. If we do this, how could we have any regrets? Oh yeah, and eat some delicious meals and drink some fabulous wine!
Trick Or Treat
What has happened to Halloween? Maybe it is different where you live, but where I am kids don’t trick or treat anymore. Every year I carve pumpkins (and yes, of course I roast the seeds), buy candy and wait for the bell to ring. And every year, nothing. Yes, I am glad for the candy I am now “forced” to eat, but I miss the kids. Where are they? Well, they go to “Fall Festivals”, malls and city sponsored events. Really? Are parents that afraid? I think this is more than a shame, I think it is a crime. To deprive kids of the unparalleled joy of running recklessly, while in a hot mask, from door to door collecting candy is dare I say, un-American.
I have such fond memories of Halloween’s past. EVERYBODY went trick or treating then. There were no festivals or mall events. Just good old-fashioned door to door begging. First, I had to go with my Mom and sister. Mom always got tired, but still the fun we had… Even the time I was so excited to beat my sister to the door that I tripped on my costume and slammed into the driveway blooding my hands and knees, is a fond memory. I simply got up and started running again. Amazing the power of sugar! Then when we got home, we officially started the swap. You know, where you pour out all of the nights treats and trade what you didn’t want, for what you couldn’t live without. I wasn’t a fan of chocolate then (I KNOW!), so I would trade my chocolate bars for my sister’s Twizzlers & Dum Dum pops. We were allowed to eat all we wanted that night and then my Mom would take control and would give us treats in our lunch boxes.
As I got older, Halloween became even more fun. No more Mom to slow me down. No more bossy older sister. And no more hot, sweaty plastic masks. Once older I opted for make-up. I think I was a Hobo at least 20 times. I went out with my friends. Mom would always order pizza so we would have a “good” meal before we left (LOL!). And then I was off. My friends and I were relentless. Never tiring and never getting enough candy. There was always, “Just one more house.” Or, “Apartments! More candy less work!” I would return home with a pillowcase (graduated from the plastic pumpkin) so full of candy I could barely hold onto it. Looking through my candy on those nights I felt what rich men must feel looking at all their money… An odd mix of happiness, greed and protectiveness.
I trick or treated until I was fifteen. I loved it that much. But then I became “cool” and “cool” kids didn’t trick or treat. They went to Halloween parties, drank too much beer and made out with each other while in slutty costumes. But before I started my night of debauchery, I always answered the door at home and handed out candy. Because secretly, even then, part of me wished I was trick or treating.
So, here I am, too old to trick or treat. Believe me, if I could get away with it, I would go in a second. And no kids at my door. Here is my plea. Parents, let your kids trick or treat. I don’t care if they still get dressed up and get candy. When the lady at The Gap is handing you a fun sized Snickers at the mall, it just isn’t the same. Set your kids free. Let them run from door to door. Even smash a pumpkin or two. It is all part of growing up and all the Fall Festivals in the world can’t take the place of one wild Halloween night when all the world and its candy is yours. Remember, you trick or treated and you are alive today to talk about it. Please don’t leave me with unseen Jack O’Lanterns, uneaten candy and the feeling that a tradition is slowly dying. And while I am on my soapbox, if you are lucky enough to get trick or treaters, don’t hand out boxes of raisins and toothbrushes. They simply get thrown away. If ever there was a night for pure, unrivaled sugar decadence, Halloween is it.
Scary Tales of Weekend Pig-Outs
I came to the conclusion today, that if not for my job, I would weigh 300 pounds. And no, I do not do taxing physical labor where I burn off lots of calories. Quite the opposite. I sit at a desk in front of a computer. But I do like to tell myself that typing burns a minimum of 250 calories an hour! Then how, you may ask, is my job controlling my weight? Simply because it gets me out of the house and keeps my mind occupied with thoughts other than, “Hmmm. I have rye bread and that great Swiss cheese. I could have a killer grilled cheese!” Remember, I am a food & wine junkie. When I am at home on the weekend, I am obsessed with food. I want to go out to eat. I want to stay in and eat. I just want to eat. I can’t seem to control myself…
Take this past weekend for example. Friday after work, of course, I went out to an Italian restaurant with my husband. There I ate cheesy garlic bread (a tad salty, but that didn’t stop me), an Italian salad and pizza. I went home and drank three glasses of wine (it WAS Friday!) and ate a pint of Arctic Zero ice cream. I also, got up at three a.m. and ate half a bag of reduced fat Poore Brother’s Chips (I highly recommend these! They are great!) with French Onion Dip. You would THINK I would wake up and not be hungry, right? Well on a “school” day, yes. On the weekend, not a chance. Saturday started with breakfast out. Two eggs over-easy, wheat toast (to dip in the yolks) and home fries. That was at about eight a.m. By ten o’clock I was standing in front of the pantry. Husband said, “You can’t POSSIBLY be hungry!” Silly boy! Of course I was! So I ate half a can of mixed nuts and then made a “snack” of French Bread and Brie cheese. Then it was lunch time! Made quesadillas with guacamole and sour cream. I know! Even writing this I am embarrassed already and I am only half way through the weekend. Saturday night it was out at a local bar where I had an appetizer sampler of fried egg rolls, sweet potato fries and cheesy lavosh. Once home, I ate a chocolate bar and drank two glasses of Malbec.
Then came Sunday… I knew, once again, I had already pigged-out all weekend so I awoke with a renewed sense of resolve. I would not eat my way through the day. Then we turned on football and all bets were off! I mean, really, how am I supposed to control my eating while being bombarded with casual dining, fast food and pizza commercials. So I made grilled cheese sandwiches ( Muenster on sourdough with a lot of mayo and fresh tomato), then finished of the potato chips and dip. For dinner I had a pizza and a HUGE salad. Then ate popcorn, more nuts and a Swiss cheese sandwich. Oink!
So, here I am Monday. Feeling guilty and more than a little bit bloated. Also, wondering why I can’t seem to control myself on the weekends. I don’t start the weekends thinking I am going to mimic one of Adam Richman’s (Man Vs. Food) eating challenges. Quite the opposite. I ALWAYS tell myself that THIS weekend will be different. That I won’t go crazy. That I won’t undo five days of healthy eating in two. But then, just like this past weekend, all hell breaks loose and I am unstoppable.
I know all the “whys”. I know it goes beyond just the simple fact that my job occupies my time during the week. Anybody who has read my blog knows that for me, food is so much more than fuel. It is a celebration, a comfort, a friend and at times, like this weekend, an enemy. I am just struggling with the “hows”. Like, how NOT to eat like a Sumo wrestler all weekend. So, what is a compulsive weekend eater to do? Well, for me I am going to REALLY try to not pig out this upcoming weekend. Believe me, this little confession I just did and seeing, in black and white, all that I ate, will go a long way.
Here I sit. Monday. The week ahead of me and my weekend pig-out right behind me and sticking its tongue out and taunting me! I will face this weekend with a plan and stick to it… Everybody needs to have an indulgent meal or two over the weekend. But I will stop there. I will let you know how it goes. Or I could simply hone my over-eating skills and become a competitive eater. No, I am too aware of what the aftermath of THOSE binge fests would be…
Valentine’s Day Dinner in A Small Town
Yes, here I am yet again lamenting the lack of good food in the small town in which we live… It is a daily frustration that is amplified on an “eating” Holiday like Valentine’s Day. The mere question of “Where should we eat?”, elicits head rubbing and sighs. And yet we soldier on and with every new place hold out hope that somehow it will be different. This is what happened on Valentine’s Day this year…
Husband and I decided to try a very pretty French restaurant in town. It has been here 20+ years and received very uneven reviews. But we had hope and excitedly made a reservation for February 15. Why deal with the crowds?
I am not going to name the restaurant because I don’t want to hurt anybody (big hint how dinner was!).
The dinner. We arrive at 6:30 and were promptly seated. It WAS pretty, although a little brightly lit. I will start with service and then move on to food. Our server, a pony-tailed/balding (talk about an oxymoron!) fellow came over and told us the one special and then said most entrees come with “starch & veg”. Yes, really, he said that! He then went on to espouse about the wine list (just okay) that he had recently redone. Now, we ordered a SPLIT of champagne. He came back with one of those new single serving bottles & gave us each half a glass! Wow! I was shocked, but stayed quiet. The bread is given French service style, which means it is meted out one roll at a time. To a bread loving girl such as myself, this was VERY frustrating! The server seemed more interested in up-selling than actually serving. Once our orders were taken, he didn’t even check back once to see if we liked the food AND took a FULL dinner plate from me without asking if something was wrong (there was, more later).
The food. Ugh! Husband ate a tuna tartar to start & then had seared Ahi for dinner. I know! But he is TRYING to be healthy. His tuna tartar was simply chopped tuna. No seasoning at all. His Ahi steak was an anemic beige and was served with a cloying balsamic sauce, a “scoop” of rice pilaf (the starch!0 and boiled carrots & green beans (the veg!). Really instead of “French” they should call this “Airline” because it really was like an airline meal. I had the romaine salad with what was supposed to be Manchego (it was mozzarella), cherub tomatoes, green beans & a Dijon dressing. It was o.k. My uneaten dinner was an eggplant stack of fried eggplant with ricotta cheese & spinach in between the layers of eggplant. Came with a raw salty sauce that I swear was pureed roma tomatoes & 1/2 a container of salt. The eggplant was raw under the breading and had a “funny” taste. Thus, only two bites were taken, not that the server noticed…
So, we left disappointed yet again. I went home and ate a sandwich, that was just delicious. Sourdough baguette, Jarlsberg cheese, heirloom tomato & a garlic aioli. Then had fabulous boxed chocolates for dessert.
Not only was it bad, but at 5:00 a.m. I awoke as Linda Blair in the Exorcist and spent the entire next day suffering from food poisoning! I KNEW the eggplant tasted funny.
Oh well, I survived and with the stupidity of the insane, will try yet again to find that elusive great dinner out in this very small town.
Confessions of Secret Eating & Guilty Pleasures
It’s time we all came clean. We ALL secretly eat. And we all have things we eat that are our guilty pleasures. Things we would be mortified if others knew about… Today, I am coming clean. My name is foodwinejunke and I am a secret eater.
So, here it is, almost nightly, after my husband falls asleep, I make my way to the kitchen. Usually it is around three in the morning and by the light of the open refrigerator,I make my “snack”. Most nights it is three corn tortillas with shredded mozzarella cheese put in the microwave for 30 seconds. Then I top them with either real mayonnaise or sour cream and Tapatio hot sauce. I take my food back to bed with me and ever so gently get in beside my husband. I happily eat the three mini-quesadillas while watching Sabrina The Teenage Witch (remember, 3 a.m., options limited). Wow, I suddenly feel much lighter for confessing! Here is the thing though, when I am sleeping, my husband also eats. He is less ritualistic, but he eats nonetheless. How do I know? He leaves a trail of cheese wrappers, empty bread bags & mayonnaise coated knives in the kitchen. I was very comforted when I found this evidence of nocturnal noshing. Oh, I thought, we ARE meant for each other!
As for guilty pleasures, it is time for self-proclaimed foodies to get off their high culinary horse and admit that they too like a grilled American cheese sandwich on Wonder bread! Or a mayonnaise sandwich with Nacho Cheese Doritos. Mine? Velveeta. I tend to be a cheese snob, but I like nothing better than a Velveeta sandwich on sourdough bread with too much mayo, sweet gherkins, lettuce and tomato. Ruffles potato chips on the side. Also, LOVE Del Taco. My husband shares my secret love of Velveeta, but also will sneak in a fried Oscar Mayer bologna sandwich in too. We aren’t the only ones. I have a girlfriend that confessed to me that she loves to eat saltine crackers smeared with mayonnaise. She eats them one after another, right from the sleeve until they are all gone. I say, Yes! Another friend likes to eat an entire Duncan Hines chocolate frosting out of the can with her fingers. Yet another, will eat fruit cocktail from the can, while squirting Reddi-Whip on it. Finally, is the friend that loves VERY cheap frozen pizza with you guessed it mayonnaise on top!
Is this wrong? NO! Can you love these foods and still appreciate the subtle nuances in a well-prepared dish? YES! Furthermore, do we all have our secret eating rituals, that not only nourish us, but also comfort us? I hope so. Because most of the secret eating and guilty pleasures are rooted in our childhood and associated with warm memories. So confess, it will do you good.
I have to go, I want to be alone with my Velveeta sandwich now.
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