I Chime In... (Poise & Rationality)

So, I wouldn't say I'm a health nut or anything. I mean, sure, I exercise and I try to choose foods that don't feed my heart-attack fetish, but I love some bad food. For instance, I'm fairly sure I could shove an entire $5.72 wedge of brie into my mouth and still go all baby bird for more. But there IS a line, people.

Meet the Philly Cheesesteak Thickburger. I thought at first it might just be a cheeseburger that tastes like a cheesesteak, but it's actually a big fat cheeseburger with a big fat cheesesteak on TOP. That's not just a crossing of the line, that's a whole ten lords a-leapin' right over the damn line. Um, really, America, must we indulge in self-destructive eating so blatantly? Apparently we must.And speaking of indulging in meat, all hot-blooded, big-lipped, 30-something women should really spend an evening in Fayetteville, North Carolina (often called Fayettenam or Fayettestan). Home to Fort Bragg and a hop-skip-jump from Pope Air Force Base, this Olive Garden town may seem like it hasn't much to offer a girl, but the male-to-female ratio is delicious. And it's not just the ratio which will taunt your tastebuds - most of the scandalously young men who live there spend much of their days doing manly things like running around with guns, so they're a treat for the peepers, too. I could have kept this secret all to myself, ladies, but I'm a giver. Go, get you some. The meat may be rare, but at least it's not covered in cheesesteak.

She-Man

I conquered the universe last night. No, really.

So I found this recipe (pronounce ree-CIPE or, in an alternate Itanglish universe, reh-CHEE-pay) online for big soft happy fluffy i-don't-need-your-stinking-atkins-bullsheet pretzels. They looked yummalicious, so I decided to try to make them. I mean, I have bowls and spoons and one sad old cookie sheet... I'm totally set to bake.

But then something amazing happened! I remembered... wait for it... how good brie is. I KNOW, right? Crazy. Anyhow, on an highly experimental whim, I decided I was smart enough and bake-savvy enough to stuff these big pretzels with brie before baking them. I would later affectionately call them "brietzels". How could any part of that be bad?

It could have been a disaster, actually, but OH MY GOD it most certainly was not. The little brietzels huffed and puffed and melted inside and baked up just perfectly, and six people went through 16 brietzels in one night. We experienced full-on brietzel mania up in my crib, and, hoo wee, doggy, for shizz, yo. On the really real.

When I woke up this morning and realized all the brietzels were gone, I actually mourned... Maybe because I'd only had three hours of sleep, but I had to choke back the tears, yo. The brietzels: they were here only briefly (pun very much intended), but they brought so much joy...

I'm now on a mission to stuff as much crap as I can into pretzels. Then I'll become locally famous and have a stand at the mall or something and people will love me. No, really, everyone will love me, dammit!

Thank you.