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I’m back, bitches.

7 Sep

Dear Mother Fuckers,

I’m back. And I had a baby.

That’s right. The queen procreated. And the baby is awesome.

He’s a sugary little lump of boy and I’m about 90 percent certain he’s made of marshmallow fluff (the kind without gelatin).

But anyway, I’ve missed the ever-loving stuffing out of this blog. And my goal is to start writing to it again.

Actually, the goal was to keep track of my weird pregnancy food stuff. But my kid is nearly seven months old now. Oops. Being a mom is rather time consuming.

However, I did keep a pregnancy diary. And every now and again I’d write about food. So here’s one of my insane pregnancy food experiences. Enjoy.

 

The Baby of Awesome, the Dog of Awesome, and Me

The Baby of Awesome, the Dog of Awesome, and Me

 

14 Weeks and 3 Days Pregnant

Hi, I’m [the Queen of Awesome] and I’m a hormonal mess.

When five year-old [the Queen of Awesome] was asked what her favorite food was, she’d answer, “Quiche!” It was a very strange answer for a tiny Texas girl. But even as a Texas woman, I still love the stuff.

And I’ve been craving it hardcore. So while I was out running errands, I went into a La Madeleine and ordered myself a quiche florentine. I was going to dine on some spinach, egg, and swiss cheese in a flaky crust and I was going to love the fuck out of it.

When my quiche and I got home, there was a problem. It was a quiche lorraine, which means it was full of ham.

My heart sank like a stone. And I had a meltdown. I cried like someone had died.

No joke.  I actually crumpled to the floor sobbing. We’re talking borderline asthma attack anxiety and mental anguish.

The worst part? I was on the phone with my husband when I made my horrible hammy discovery.

Nothing in the world was worse than staring at the one food that I could possibly stomach right now, and I couldn’t eat it.

So how does this story end? Right now, I’m typing this and my darling husband is going to another La Madeleine to order me the proper quiche. He’s coming home to have lunch with me and he’s going to eat the ham monstrosity and I’m going to dine on some spinach, egg, and swiss cheese in a flaky crust.

I love the fuck out of him.

No one will warn you about food peer pressure, except me.

13 Jun

When you’re in elementary school, your teachers and the principal will talk to you about a little thing called peer pressure.

It’s when your friends and buddies will try to get you to drink alcohol (gasp!), or smoke cigarettes (double gasp!), or try drugs (faints!).

Peer pressure sucks and it’s very very hard to rise above. Especially when you’re young. Hell, it’s difficult now.

That’s right. Peer pressure never really goes away.

But as a could-I-stab-it-to-death-a-tarian, I’ve experienced a whole other level of peer pressure. The pressure to eat meat against my will.

Since I stopped chowing down on mammals when I was 12 (yeah, 12), my pubescent and teenaged years will filled with snotty brats shoving burgers and ham sandwiches in my face. They’d munch on hotdogs proclaiming, “Oh, this dead pig is SO GOOD!” And then offer me a bite just to watch me squirm.

They thought they were so clever. They thought they were the first person to ever make fun of my diet. They thought they had a career in standup? I don’t know what they thought. Trying to get people to eat or drink stuff they don’t like never made sense to me.

I never gave in. And I won’t, because this shit STILL HAPPENS.

I still have a few friends and family members who can’t fight their compulsion to offer me meatballs or fried chicken knowing damn well I don’t eat it. Like I’m going to toss 17 years of standing my ground down the disposal. In front of everyone.

“It’s good. You’d like it.”

“Are you suuuuure?”

“Well, there’s an extra piece up here if you decide to change your mind.”

Fuck you, I’m not changing my mind. I don’t want to give you the bloody satisfaction of popping my carnivorous cherry.

Was that too graphic? Fuck you if you think so. It’s no worse then trying to get me to eat beef jerky or drink bacon vodka.

Food peer pressure sucks calf fries.

Beer Vs. Wine at the Common Table

7 Dec

It’s date night for the Queen and King of Awesome. The Common table was nice enough to modify their menu for me.

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My Blue Mesa lunch made me blue.

27 Oct

It’s difficult to screw up a veggie wrap.

Right?

All you need to do is throw various veggies in a tortilla with some zingy sauce. That’s it.

Apparently not. Le sigh.

Today, I had a boxed lunch from Blue Mesa Grill featuring their veggie wrap. It’s described as a “roasted veggie wrap on a whole wheat tortilla.”

It was lettuce, corn, and sour cream. And it sure seemed like  a flour tortilla, but that’s not really a problem since I prefer flour to wheat.

Anyway, the entire thing was flavorless. And I’m really bummed about it. There were no roasted veggies. In fact, there were hardly any veggies.

You’re Blue Mesa! Throw in some peppers. Some onions. Some mushrooms.

And don’t use sour cream! Or if you do, a little salt is a good thing. But oil and vinegar would have been perfectly acceptable.

Ugh. This post is so boring. Perhaps because I found my lunch totally uninspiring.

Maybe I should have been bitchier.

24 Oct

I’m really super nice to my servers.

I never get visibly upset or frustrated when crap happens. I always laugh it off or am overly apologetic when I make a request that doesn’t get made. And I’ve only ever sent food back like five times. And the mistake has to be huge.

Like chicken on my vegetarian pizza or having refried beans and Mexican rice on half of my plate when I very clearly requested to not have them at all.

Like on Friday night at Matt’s el Rancho in Allen, Texas.

It’s my fault in the first place for agreeing to go to Matt’s. I knew that this place wouldn’t be veggie friendly. I’ve been to the Matt’s in Lakewood, and their top seller is queso with ground beef floating in it. Not a good sign. Plus, Allen, Texas, is Texas Suburbia, which doesn’t look to kindly on those types of people (said in the thickest Texas accent you can imagine).

Anyway, my server was the sweetest, nicest guy who’s ever donned a server’s outfit. When I politely told him that I was a strict vegetarian (I wasn’t about to get into the whole could-I-stab-it-to-death-atarian thing), he immediately came up with a fantastic sounding option for me: a chile relleno stuffed with broccoli, cauliflower and other veggies with guacamole salad on the side instead of rice and beans.

I couldn’t wait. That sounded like salty, veggie-Mexican food heaven.

So when my party of four received their meals and I didn’t, I just knew my order didn’t get placed.

Cue the awkward request that my friends start eating without me. (It doesn’t help that my darling, good-hearted friends were so concerned about me eating in the first place. They scoured the menu for me, asked several times if it was okay to eat there, and were even prepared to talk to the waiter for me. This brand of mothering used to get me really upset because I’ve been doing this for 16-plus years now and I’m a grown-ass woman, but it’s sweet.)

So after only fifteen seconds of me surveying the nearly empty restaurant, another very kind, very concerned server asked what I had ordered. When I explained, his face went blank. Always a good sign, no?

Our server came by and apologized. I smiled, touched his arm and said, “It’s okay. My husband is an ex-server. I totally get it!” as I buried my mounting rage and hunger in chips and salsa.

Anyway, someone put my order in and it came out ten minutes later. Completely wrong.

Chicken stock rice and lard beans all over the plate. Where was my guacamole (that my waiter suggested) on a happy bed of shredded lettuce?

¿Cómo se dice “what the fucking fuck” en español?

I never once complained. But I politely requested it be fixed for dietary reasons. And I knew they’d simply scrape off the sides, wipe off that half of the plate, and plop my guac down in that spot.

Whatever.

But they forgot the guac. The food runner said, “I gave you some extra lettuce,” like she had done me a fucking favor.  Adding insult to injury, there were still little chickeny bits of rice and dollops of beans clinging to a sizable fraction of my veggies.

Which I scraped to the other side of my plate so I could quietly eat the (hopefully) uncontaminated side.

Realizing now that this post is getting long makes me a little angrier at myself. I should have expressed my apprehension to eat, my disappointment in being forgotten, and the fact that I was really hungry and not going to get full off of the meager amount I could eat with a semi-clear conscience.

So when I received my bill and I was charged full price for everything (including the full price of a dessert I shared with the table, whatever), despite that I had not received something I had ordered, my order hadn’t been placed, everyone was waiting on me, and I was still fucking hungry … I was royally pissed. But I said nothing, because this kid was just trying to make a living in Allen, Texas, and I didn’t want to risk him having to pay for my meal. Because it was a new restaurant and they were working out kinks and I’m 100 percent certain that I  make way more money than that kid does.

Anyway, should I have complained? Perhaps. If I could go back, would I have? I have no idea. But I do know one thing: I’m going to start bringing peanut butter sandwiches with me when I go to restaurants. I’m over this shit.

The best ice cream shake I’ve ever had contains no ice cream.

5 Apr

Who knew vegan could taste so good?

When I’m especially deserving, my husband swallows his Texan meat-eating pride and dines with me at Spiral Diner, a little vegan oasis in the land of flesh eaters.

It’s the only place (that I know of) where I too can dine on a barbeque sandwich. Granted, it’s seitan and not beef or pork, but it’s damned tasty.

Anyway, the best thing on the menu is the chocolate i-scream shake. It’s downright gluttonous.

Containing absolutely no dairy, it blows the straw out of any milkshake I’ve ever had. It’s sweet, smooth, and I would slap my mom with a block of tofu to get my hands on one.

Whether or not you’re a fan of the vegetarian lifestyle, this shake is sure to satisfy the sweetest of sweet teeth.

Avocados beware, for the Super Bowl cometh.

25 Jan

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.