Avocados beware, for the Super Bowl cometh.

As a professional copywriter, I never get to say “Super Bowl” because using an NFL trademark in advertising is punishable by death.

As an unpaid blogger, I get to say it all I please. So Super Bowl, Super Bowl, Super Bowl.

Now that we have that out of the way, let’s talk about the real history of the Super Bowl. More specifically, Super Bowl cuisine.

Many people believe the Super Bowl is called the Super Bowl because it’s the biggest bowl game around. True, but not the reason for the large name.

It’s called the Super Bowl because of the humble little avocados. Because they’re consumed by the bowlful on the holiest of Sundays (degrees of holiness are obviously subjective; a Super Bowl can only be as holy as the teams competing).

But it wasn’t always this way.

Chips and dips were always a football-party standard. They’re easily shared, tasty, and go great with beer. But one faithful day at a HUGE Super Bowl party somewhere in California, a couple forgot the dip. Flustered, the host and hostess had mere moments to come up with an alternative before guests arrived. They tore their kitchen apart, searching the cabinets for something creamy and edible.

And in the last moment of desperation, bent over the bowl of chips, hair still in curlers, IT happened.

A chunk of the wife’s homemade avocado facemask slid from her nose and onto a chip.

“Hey, that’s food!” cried the husband.

The couple hurriedly ran to the avocado tree in the front yard and plucked the fat fruits from the branches. Then they mashed and bashed like crazy to create not just guacomole, but avocado dip. They threw in sour cream, added onions, and salted it to perfection.

Guests ate the new creation like mad. They devoured bowls of the stuff. And history was made.

And if you believe any of this, you’re mad, too.

Super Bowl. Super Bowl. Super Bowl.

Want a little Irish in you?

As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one Irish pub outside of Ireland that I truly consider an Irish pub.

And trust me, I’ve been to many “Irish” pubs across the U.S. And they’re all lacking something.

Trinity Hall Irish Pub in Mockingbird Station in Dallas (although they have a new location in Allen, I just haven’t been there yet) is a true Irish pub. Right down to the wood.

Trinity Hall rocks. First off, the owner is Irish. Second, the food is badass ass. Not to mention they have quite a number of vegetarian options, as the pubs in Ireland do. Third, they know their beer.

They know their beer so well that Izzie (on of their bartenders) was awarded by Guinness for his pint pouring skills. Ever have a perfect pint? The answer is simply, ever been to Trinity Hall Irish Pub in Dallas?

In the mood for something hot instead of beer, get an Irish Coffee or a Hot Toddy. Just make sure Joe is your server; his hot drinks are to die for. In fact, I’d feel safe betting that no one can make a hot, Irish drink that could beat one of Joe’s. Having one of his Irish coffees easily turns into drinking three.

And if you’re hungry, well, you can’t go wrong. I hear the Bangers and Mash are excellent. I can tell you from experience that the Mulligatawny stew (vegetarian broth!) is heart warming. But one of my favorites is the Mockingbird Sunday, a baked potato stuffed to the nines with cheese, vegetables, and more potatoes.

Go up there on a Sunday for the Pub Quiz. Or head out there anytime, really. If there’s a soccer or rugby game playing, be prepared for a truly authentic Irish experience; the place can get crowded. Other times, it’s a great, quiet place for the whole family (yep, they have a kids’ menu).

Try to sit in either Ollie or Joe’s sections. And tell them Yummy Awesome sent you.

Sláinte, Y’all.

 

Don't you dare call it your pub, because it's my pub.

The Turducken or: How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Tofu

tur-duc-ken

(n.)

A de-boned chicken stuffed into the cavity of a de-boned ducke stuffed into the cavity of a de-boned turkey. Then cooked and devoured by glutenous people.

—

The thought is actually quite funny. Let’s shove this animal up this animal’s ass. Then shove those animals into another animal’s ass. Then shove those animals into our mouths and later out of our asses.

I want to laugh, but I also want to cry. If anything prevents me from ever eating meat again, it’s this monstrosity (or those turtle burgers I wrote about some time ago).

Thank you, Thanksgiving, for giving turkeys another reason to fear November. As if being the main centerpieces of countless U.S. tables wasn’t embarrassing enough, now they’re getting packed like a … I really want to say cheerleader on prom night, but I’m not sure if that works here.

Or maybe it does.

Turd. Uck! Ehhn?

I got serviced.

Apparently, I’m one of the last people in Dallas to eat at Neighborhood Services Tavern on the bustling Henderson Ave.

And then once I arrived, I had to wait another hour and a half for a table.

It was well worth it, though. That place is tasty (at least the food is tasty, I didn’t lick the walls or anything). And the drinks are fabulous; so any excuse to order another one is fine by me. Even if that excuse is a long wait.

I started with a little crushed berry and vodka concoction called the Amelia. Served in a martini glass and oh-so-pretty, this drink nearly made me swoon by looks alone. Then I tasted it. Mmmm. Being shoulder to shoulder with strangers didn’t even bother me with one of those tangy, sweet beverages in my hand … and brain.

BONUS: One of the bartenders had the sweetest mustache ever. We’re talking 1930s barber ‘stache. Glorious!

Once we sat, the service was friendly and prompt. And the food was DELICIOUS. Yep, in all-caps. It was so fucking good, I can’t even really remember what I had. There were grits. There were shrimp. I think there may have been some shaved Unicorn horn and Centaur sweat. Whatever they put on their food, they need to keep adding it.

There’s a bigger Neighborhood Services over on Lovers Ln. I’ll be checking that one out, as well. Try it for yourself. And tell them Yummy Awesome sent you.

The Neighborhood Services ... crest? Last I checked, neighborhood was one word. And why do monograms put the last initial in the center? I hate that.

I want a veggie burger bed.

Forget having a race car bed. Or a canopy bed. Or any other type of allegedly cool bed.

Because they all suck compared to the salty glory of the hamburger bed.

The one downside to a hamburger bed: being blackout drunk and waking up to no bed at all.

My extensive research tells me that Kayla Kromer of Austin, Texas, created this burgerlicious bed. And by “extensive research,” I mean someone sent me the link and I read the history of the bed.

But it’s not surprising that someone from Austin had the creativity and know-how to make such a unique place to sleep. Add it to the reasons-to-move-to-Austin list.

I like the idea of food furniture. Perhaps someone should sew a taco sleeping bag (I know, not furniture). Or muffin ottomans. Or a dining table that looks like a takeout box.

All I know is that going to bed for me isn’t as delicious as going to bed is for Kayla Kromer. Yummy Awesome salutes you!

Watch as I fork the steam out of this soufflé.

Cue the Barry White music, because things are going to get sexy up in here.

As I seduce this magnificent, mushroom soufflé.

Oh, yeah.

So swollen. So tender.

So ready.

At first, I will fork it lightly.

So soft. So warm in the middle.

Slowly I penetrate. And watch as steam escapes.

Now, the foreplay is over. Time to dig in.

Mmmm.

I could eat this soufflé for hours.

I think I will.

I want to fork you, soufflé.

The cutest fucking chips in the world.

Just look at them. How cute are these tiny crunchy ghosts?

I just want to pinch their fucking translucent little cheeks.

They are the exact opposite of yesterday’s mean cookie. But there’s room for both in my tummy. Which by the way,  is now haunted with an entire bag of these spooky guys.

Do not feed the tourists after ten.

Over the weekend, my husband and I spent some time in Baltimore, Alexandria, and D.C.

And we nearly starved to death.

Being from a different time zone, we ate later than the locals. Being from Dallas, we ate way later than the locals.

There were no food options after ten. Nothing. Even the bars quit serving chips and dip. What were the drunks supposed to snack on?

I’m not sure how other states do it, but Texas is very friendly to people who like full meals in the middle of the night. Dallas, for example, has many 24-hour restaurants.

• Cafe Brazil
• Buzzbrew’s
• IHOP
• Denny’s

Each offers full breakfast and dinner menus all damn day long. And it’s fantastic. You want waffles after midnight? Sure thing. You want a salad at 7 AM? It’s yours.

It took an hour of walking door to door in search of something edible for us to realize how spoiled we really were.

Anyhoo, in Alexandria, VA, we eventually found the Barroom at Columbia Firehouse. And they had some pretty damn good offerings. (But we could’ve thought that simply because our stomachs were attacking other organs at that point.)

Their sauces were especially tasty. Buttermilk goat cheese dip. Smoked mayonnaise. And creamy pimento cheese. I’m not sure how you smoke mayo, but I’m going to dedicate the rest of my life to figuring it out.

I’ll have to share the sad tale of trying to find dinner in Baltimore (a 3-hour venture) some other time.

Turtle Burger—Many Animals in One (Although No Real Turtles)

Leave it to the vegetarian to write about the latest meat fest.

Someone virtually introduced me to the Turtle Burger.

The thing is insane, creepy, and I’m sure delicious—but I’ll never know. Maybe I can make a tofu version. Although that would also be creepy. Food shouldn’t look like anything living. Even gingerbread men make me a teensy bit sad.

I digress.

The turtle burger has hotdog legs (with little turtle toes), a head, and a tail. The crunchy shell is a lattice work of bacon. And the innards are hamburger meat topped in cheese.

It sounds like a real turtle, no?

Anyway, if you’re trying to commit suicide by coronary blockage, buy the proper ingredients, create this monster, and stuck him in a 400 degree oven for 20–30 minutes.

If you use ketchup (or catsup), you’re a sick, sick bastard.

Not going to beat the hare now, are you?

This Doritos truck is an asshole.

Yeah, I just called a truck an asshole. Why? Because it was obnoxiously parked across not 1, not 2 , not 3 but 4 parking spaces in a busy strip mall during lunch time. And they weren’t even giving out free samples. It was just parked there. Taunting me with its white-bellied obesity and faded cheese-covered corn chips. Like I said, this truck is an asshole.

Who even eats Doritos anymore? Nacho Cheese should be called Nacho Feet and there’s nothing cool about Cool Ranch.

(Ok, I lied about that last part. Cool Ranch Doritos are pretty cool.)

But I think I’m most mad about the fact that their evil (but kind of genius) product placement tactic worked on me. You see, despite the fact that I had to circle the parking lot 3 times to find a spot, I still added a bag of Doritos to my meal. Because while my mind was screaming bloody murder. my tummy was rumbling louder. And it wanted something cheesy with an extreme crunch.

I hate that I ate you. But I kicked your left tire on my way out so we’re even, Doritos.