I Am McLovin'

Fast food. Usually on my docket if it’s 3 a.m. and I’ve pwned a sixer or I'm on a road trip, because calories don’t count on road trips, duh.

But I made an exception recently. A BIG one. You see, being in the communications industry, I tend to pay a lot more attention to advertisements. And one I kept seeing was for the McRib – “It’s Back!” (so throw better judgment to the wind, unbutton your pants and get that fat ass on down to McD’s!). That thing is STILL around? I’ve never had it, because frankly, I’m from KC and I prefer a real rack of ribs vs. some molded imposter. But alas, since this thing has a cult following (at least it’s not Kool-Aid!), I decided to try it once and for all.

But why stop there? If I’m going to subject myself to the perceived puketasticness of the McRib, why not try a few other things and make an event out of it? So, after conferring with the boyfriend and some folks at his work (who are all dudes a couple years out of college and still pound their fair share of this “food”), we decided I’d punish my gut with a Happy Meal (to compare to the ones I ate as a kid), the chocolate chip cookies that you never think to order because ice cream is way better and…the McGangBang. You heard me right. Apparently folks like to purchase a double cheeseburger and a spicy chicken sandwich off the Dollar Menu and pretend they make hard, nasty sexy time to create this monstrosity of a sandwich. There’s also the Land, Sea and Air burger, which has a beef patty, chicken patty and fillet-o-fish patty all piled high onto a bun. I passed on that one. After all, I had to moderate.

On to the ordering. I was a bit apprehensive because I was worried I might get questioned on the Happy Meal…oh, and look like a ‘tard, but I forged ahead and surprisingly, the little Mexican dude didn’t blink an eye after I gave him my laundry list of requests.  But then again, judging some of the folks who patronize the place, he probably keeps a defibrillator behind the counter, so my order was child’s play.

Before I get on to the food analysis, please know that you CAN’T order the McGangBang, so don’t even try. It’s a DIY sort of thing. Kinda like masturbation.

Okay, so on to the food. First up: The McRib.

This saucy concoction immediately made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Look at it. Sick nasty.

I dug in for the first bite, which for a nanosecond was decent because of the BBQ sauce, but as I chewed, I started to experience profound food remorse.

Which turned into full-on disgust.

Good God, it was terrible. Who eats this…and likes it? Of all the things you could put in your mouth [insert BJ joke here], why would you subject yourself to this abomination masquerading as food? I could probably find a better meal by digging through the trash behind a strip club. They serve prime rib, for Christ’s sake. BBQ sauce can enhance a lot of things, but in this case, it can’t fix the mushy, “hot dogs thrown into a blender” kind of texture. Oh, and it’s made of 70 ingredients, including a substance that is used to make gym mats and shoe soles. Pretty sure it’s not good to flavor food with something from the garage. But what do I know about mutant food? Verdict: Eat only if you lose a dare. It’s not even passable as drunk food.

So, on to the Happy Meal, or “Crappy Meal” as my dad used to call it. First off, WHERE IN THE HELL IS THE COOL BOX IT USED TO COME IN? You know, this one:

Instead, they decided to go all environmentally friendly on our asses and give us this crappy glorified lunch sack.

The good thing is, you still get a toy, and in my case, I got a walking Humpty Dumpty from “Puss in Boots.” First win of the night. Cue the Humpty Dance music (ah ah, do it baby!).

I ordered chicken nuggets with fries and a soda because frankly, the last time I had fruit or milk with fast food was…never. I don’t eat oxymorons, fools.

It was as good [read: bad] as I remember it; the nostalgia definitely played a part in me actually eating it vs. throwing the nuggets at the stupid teens sporting the those painted-on jeans that they SAG (WTF – If you’re old enough to know right vs. wrong, you should know that sagging tight jeans is so off the charts wrong that you belong in special ed, stupid).  Verdict: Tastes as good as deep-fried pressed chicken parts can taste, but I’d probably opt to stay with the big kid selections. “Big” being the operative word.

After I finished my Happy Meal, I moved on to the aforementioned McGangBang.

It looked pretty daunting, but I figure anything that alludes to violent group sex has to be tasty. And it was. Hit of the night. It’s like a savory Twinkie. You first taste the standard bread/beef patty, but then you get the lovely spicy surprise of fried chicken in the middle.

I owned that filthy sandy. Pretty sure it called me “Mami” midway through. And the burning in my stomach was probably the chewed up remnants lighting a cigarette. Verdict: If you’re looking for a cheap thrill, this is your go-to.

To end on a sweet note, I had one of the cookies (3 for $1 – a bitchin’ bargain!).

All I have to say is…nothing. It was a chocolate chip cookie. I’m an adventurous cookie eater, and frankly, this was the missionary of cookies. Verdict: Decent, but unsatisfying.  

Speaking of unsatisfying, I was so in need of an acceptable way to end my epic meal that my boyfriend went back up and got me the new Reese’s McFlurry.

You really can’t go wrong with a McFlurry. It’s basically a cheaper version of the Blizzard, but with all the fat and calories. I can’t think of a better way to silence my prick of an inner fat kid (shut up, you beefy turdface). Verdict: One of the best things on the menu. Let’s hope it never goes away (unless we’re talking about the blubber it leaves on your ass – that can disappear any time it wants to).

You’re probably thinking I should’ve been too full to move, but that’s what’s so great about fast food – it’s so high in carbs that you digest it faster...so you can eat even more! Bless you, America. And Walmart, for keeping up with demand for sweatsuits and oversized tees.

All in all, I found my journey through the McD’s menu was a worthwhile one. It made me feel like a better person. I was able to plow through all of that fried/sugary food  1.) completely sober, 2.) without puking, and 3.) while maintaining the ability to refrain from accosting any undersexed (but pretending not to be), tight jean sagging teenagers. I’m lovin’ it.

The Blackness

I just ate an entire can of black beans…for dinner.

And I f-ing loved it. I don’t know what it is. Pinto? You’re better refried. Kidney? You’re name is KIDNEY…nasty! Go hump other kidney beans in the sex stew that is chili. Garbanzo? You’re gross unless you’re simmered for hours in some broth made by Jesus. Lima? Get the fuck outta here, you suck in every way that suck can suck.  So, probably the absolute shortest blog post on earth, but suffice to say…when you go black, you never go back.

Taste of Colorawesome

Okay, normally the thought of street-thick crowds makes me want to take a pair of nunchucks to my face, but I decided to brave the Taste of Colorado because dammit, I know they gots good food. Plus, I can walk there, so that’s a bonus.  The thing about Taste of Colorado (which is like a state fair, but most people have all of their teeth) is that when it’s really nice out, it’s tolerable.  So, I ventured out with the boy, very little in the tum-tum on purpose, and readied the stomach. It was a gorgeous 75 degrees outside, so hell, that’s enough to make anyone hungry. Yeah, many people might use the great weather to hike, bike or explore their green thumb – those dirty bastards – but I use it to get a tan as I eat myself to oblivion. That’s because tan people look skinnier (apparently) and hell, I need all the skinny secrets I can get because I was planning to eat like a growing teenage boy (without the barely there pubes…or wait…*winky face*).

So, first stop. Beer tent. It was like premature ejaculation because little did I know, had I walked another block, I could’ve enjoyed a microbrew. Suck. Oh well, It was Blue Moon, and it was good, even without a side of the obligatory orange slice…take note, fair-hopping bartenders!



Looking to build a base for all the food I'm going to eat.



Next stop? Oh, just the place that serves fried ALLIGATOR. Talk about getting some supreme tail. Sure, I got about 1/100 of it, but frankly, put some of that in a cornmeal batter and deep-fry it, it tastes just like… (stop waiting for me to say something inappropriate because I never do that, sillies) chewy chicken. Yeah, not so impressed, but who has had fried alligator? People who speak that Cajun pidgin stuff… and me. Another notch on my belt…made of alligator skin.

Knowing that I'm eating the tail of an animal that does the Death Roll is hawt.

Next stop: Lunch. What’s that I see? A Wild Game sign?!? Gimme. Immediately. So, they had a bunch of the hoofed game meat (elk, venison, buffalo, etc.), but I’ve done that and needed something that would make me question my choices..oh, and make me want to take a shower afterward. So I went for the rattlesnake sausage. People, rattlesnakes suck ass. They’re scary, they bite, they stick out their tongues at everyone, they live in dry, wretched places and they have a baby rattle attached to their asses. Stupids. But slap my mom and call her Susan (her name is actually Susan – sorry, Mom!) this sausage is some of the best sausage I’ve ever had in my life. For realz. It’s really light, but the seasoning was just enough to make it great without overdoing it. It’s like a hot dog on crack…meaning crack of the rattle, bitches.

So, clearly, one r’snake dog isn’t going to do it for me. Granted, I boned out with its deliciousness, but hell on trike wheels, mi estomago wasn’t done yet. I mean, if you’re at a fair designed around food (aren’t they all?), I must grub más. So, we walked through this area infested with 13-year-old “I dye my hair with Kool-Aid and wear jeans that are self-ripped…but not really, they’re from Hot Topic” peeps. Gross. [Disclaimer:  I was one of those. I just punched myself in the chest thinking about it.]

Anyway, that meant we had to trudge through the rides (think Uncle Eddie, Tilt-A-Whirl and Carnies (small hands!)) but happened upon this little cart wielding all that is fried glory. Yeah, they know their target market, but I’m in a market all my own: Bitch be crazy…and starving. So, the boy and I opt for fried Oreos. It took a million years…at least that’s what pre-teen blondie with the Manic Panic hair said…but suck a honey badger’s tit, this was amazing.

Holy Poopface -- who let this girl outside? Note: no need to match the color of the food you're eating. The powdered sugar look is not FASHION.

Anything fried is good. But anything fried with chocolate in it? Holy ballsack, it’s the bestest. Look at it!

I may or may not have had to pound my chest a few times to restart my heart, but it was worth it. I love fun, whimsical, super-fattening food, and Taste of Colorado delivered. If you ever have a chance to hit a food fair, do it. Lots of local restaurants, lots of good beer and ‘cohol and LOTS of excellent people-watching [read: freaky people who probably indulge in bestiality]. Funzies.

An Airplane DisASSter

I’ve oft thought of myself as an adventurous eater, so when I opted for a pretzel dog at LaGuardia airport on a recent business trip, I figured I was playing it safe. I mean sure, it’s a bit unconventional – it’s not in a bun nor wrapped in fried corn dough, but come on, it’s combining two very pedestrian foods: soft pretzels and hot dogs (Nathan’s hot dogs, to be clear). Plus, it was NYC and I figured I had to get in my hot dog fix somewhere since I spent 95 percent of the trip in New Jersey. 

So, I belly up to the counter at Auntie Anne’s and peruse the menu. It’s around 4 p.m. or so and I’m pretty hungry, so I opt for the jumbo pretzel dog meal, which comes with a footlong dog, cheese and a drink. A bargain at $8.50. I ate it so fast I probably looked like I was some porn star on vacation, but I didn’t care at that point. It was pretty darn good. Plus, can’t go wrong with nacho cheese.

Stopped up? Try a Pretzel Dog!

After a slight delay, we board the plane. I’m full and tired, so I figure I’ll just situate the neck pillow and zonk out. That’s when the captain comes over the intercom and says, “Folks, got some bad news. We’ve got a major storm system approaching to the west, so we’re going to be grounded for at least an hour.”

An hour? I can manage. Sure, I’m tired and a bit grumpy, but hell, I’ll still be home relatively early, so no big deal. Just as I’m starting to zone out, the captain comes back on and says, “Folks, sorry to say, but I’ve got MORE bad news. Ya see, we seem to have a loose bolt in one of our wheel wells and it’s going to take another hour and a half for us to fix it.”

I look at my coworker Candace sitting two rows behind me, mouth a few expletives to express my annoyance, and decide to browse through Sky Mall. Then I start feeling a little queasy and figure it’s just from sitting in such tight quarters. Then I start getting gassy and have to crap. I assume it was probably all the nacho cheese and instantly regret eating it because farting on a plane is tantamount to dutch oven-ing the people in my row .  So I vent to Candace:

But who poops on a plane? Not me. Ever. I don’t do road games, especially in a bathroom the size of a Cracker Jack box. So, we decide to deplane since we figure we’re going to be on this plane for quite a while before takeoff AND it’s a four-hour flight. I hit the restroom and as I’m sitting there, I’m thinking I’ll probably get hungry again. What do I do? I’m vulnerable and not thinking clearly at that point, so I grab another f-ing pretzel dog. This time with spicy nacho cheese. And yes, I have a very short-term memory. The guy behind the counter was the same guy who served me before, but this time he was super nice and complimented my necklace, which in hindsight really meant, "See, I'm a nice person, so don't hate me for what's about to happen to your colon."

I take my meal back to the plane, wolf it down, then lay back hoping for some shut-eye. Little did I know I should’ve been praying for some shut-browneye. First, it was the cold sweats. Then the hot sweats. Then the stomach rumble. Of course I was sitting in "B," which for those unfamiliar, it means the middle or "sitting bitch," as some fondly like to call it. And that term is definitely appropriate. I politely tell the Asian guy sitting in the aisle that I need to use the restroom. Note that we’re still grounded.

I head down the aisle and there’s a bunch of people congregating. Attempting to suck in your stomach to make yourself model skinny in order to get past a group of people…while trying not to crap your pants is quite a feat. But I made it to the toilet and did what I needed to do, as ungodly as it was. Relief comes over me, the sweat subsides and I head on back to my seat. This colon is CLEAR!

And to make the situation even better, we’re ready for takeoff. Brilliant! I settle in, close my eyes and fall asleep…for all of 10 minutes when I realize that the incline of the plane stirred something up inside and I have to hit the john again.

Some deep breaths, lip biting and white knuckling the armrest helped me hold it until 10,000 feet, but the stupid f-ing seatbelt sign was still on. Sorry peeps, my ass don’t give a shit about seatbelt signs. I get up and thank GOD all the flight attendants are in front of the plane and can’t order me back to my seat. I book it. As I shut the door, the captain comes over the intercom and says, “Folks, I’m keeping the seatbelt sign on for a bit, as we’re heading into some fairly nasty turbulence.”

F…M…L… Having diarrhea is horrible in itself. Having diarrhea on a plane is like getting tea-bagged by a transient. But having diarrhea on a plane while it’s going through turbulence belongs in the 7^th circle of hell. I’m pretty sure I had a near death experience trying to harness myself on the pot using the handlebar and the sink so as not to come out of the bathroom looking like I got hit by a typhoon of ass juice.  I was like the Evel Knievel  of poo wrangling.

I finish up, bounce back and forth between rows like a pinball because those turbulence are still aggressive, and land in my seat, completely wiped (pun intended). No less than 30 despicable minutes later, I have to go again. I finally decide to own up to Asian Aisle Seat Guy and let him know that I’m pretty sure I ate poisonous pretzel dogs, have wicked diarrhea and that I need to get up again. “Diarrhea?” he asks in his Asian accent (have no idea which one, so don’t hate…but it sounded like “Die-a-wee-ahhh”). He looks at me like I told him I had the Ebola virus. I nod and he quickly gets up and lets me pass, making sure not to touch me. This seat dance happens two more times before we finally land, the poor guy. I would’ve shaken his hand, but we all know how that would’ve gone.  

In sum, Jesus H. Christ! How can a pretzel dog (or two) rip me a new asshole? I was sick all the next day, too. Was that really a pretzel dog, or did someone decide it would be super awesome to feed me two-day-old leftover doggers from 7-Eleven?  Was that nacho cheese or coagulated Ex-Lax? Either way, the morale of the story is that just because I was in a city known for the hot dog, the only thing hot about the pretzel dog was the burning in my anus.

On the bright side, I lost 5 lbs and got to meet Birdman! The end.

Me, Birdman from the Nuggets and Candace. This is pre-colon blow.

An Ode To The California Burrito

There’s something to be said about burritos. They’re a meal (a G-D gut bomb at that) wrapped up in a tortilla. You can put pretty much anything in them. Shit, you can put another burrito in them (aka “The Pregnant Burrito”). Portable, delicious…and the reason Beano was invented. But not all burritos fall in the realm of what I like to call “Holy Mother Of All that Gives Me Colonic Hardship, But Worth The Trip To The Toilet.”

Lucky for San Diego, they invented something worth a day of colon blows: The California Burrito. Typically if you live anywhere other than California, any meal with “California” in the title means avocado, sprouts and something healthy. But get your sweet ass to San Diego, because that city is the antithesis of the leafy green veggie assault you expect from California…in the form of what’s called the California Burrito. What’s in this magnificent handheld piece of wonderment you ask? Um, all that’s delicious, duh.

They start with carne asada. That in itself is downright poop-your-pants delicious. It’s essentially a thin steak that’s grilled and cut into bits or strips and serves as the protein base for the burrito. Then comes a heart-attack load of cheese, a dollop of sour cream that was probably loaded on there by one of the employee’s low rider trucks parked in the back. You know, the one with decked out with sweet decals in that old English lettering that looks like someone barfed up serifs everywhere.

And the best part: FRENCH FRIES. You heard that right, folks. Just because it’s not a breakfast burrito doesn’t mean it can’t get some tuber action. And it does. It flexes its starch muscles like some overly tanned meathead…but in this case, a meathead with a brain (I mean, you have to be a GENIUS to include something French in a Mexican dish. There’s a sex joke in there somewhere).



I would've smiled like a Cheshire cat in this pic because I was in Mexi-heaven, but alas, my teeth were busy assaulting some California burrito goodness.



Anyway, it’s probably one of the best burritos I’ve had in my life, and you can get them anywhere in San Diego. Some people go to San Diego to chill at the beach…my next trip there will be to eat my weight in California burritos.

Oh, and if you’re still hungry after the burrito (what are you, a fat ass like me?), try the carne asada fries. Basically a box full of French fries covered in carne asada, cheese, sour cream, guac and overall awesomeness. You might want to bring a portable defibrillator…just to be on the safe side. CLEAR!

Blue Hairs and Mexican Fare

Okay, okay, okay. I may have a small obsession with Mexican food, but why the hell not? 1.) You get chips and salsa immediately upon taking a seat, which allows you to prepare yourself for the full-on stomach assault heading your way. 2.) Mexican food is versatile – you can eat it for any meal; it can be fried, baked, grilled, smothered, rolled, etc.; and it goes with any outfit, whether you’re donning a full-on mariachi getup or just chillin’ in your sweet-ass Mexican peasant blouse (oh the embroidery is exquisite!). 3.) Margaritas.

So, after work, I started hearing the call from my inner amiga (who wears eyeliner as lipliner, pencils in her eyebrows and ALWAYS wants Mexican food. Simmer down, chola!). Usually that call is punctuated by some light Norteña music, which is horrible, but gets the point across. Anyway, Don and I decided to hit up Las Brisas in Greenwood Village, which touts itself as serving Latin coastal cuisine. 

Ready to eat some yummy Mexican food, just like Grandma used to do.

Yeah, I kinda got that when I saw the décor. A special fountain/jungle area near the dance floor (oh yeah, there’s a dance floor, baby) and the white/pastel wicker tables and chairs with backs shaped like raindrops. Hello Miami, circa mid-80’s. I apologize in advance for not donning the obligatory white linen suit and hot pink button-up shirt. 

Oh, the decor is glorious. Yeah, it's a bit hard to make out the colors, but trust me, this place is a pastel nightmare.

They sat Don and me down in this dimly lit area, and when I say “dimly lit,” we’re talking nothing but candlelight. Sure, I suppose it could’ve been considered romantic, except for the fact that when we took a good look around (after our eyes adjusted, of course) it was an f-ing blue hair bonanza. We were by far the youngest people in there. WTF? Shouldn’t these people be in bed already? I thought dinner time was between 3:30-4:30 in the afternoon. But I suppose not for THIS sect of sassy seniors. In fact, as I soon discovered, Las Brisas is essentially a high-mileage meet market. It’s like a club you’d find in a retirement village in Orlando.

Two silverbacks were sitting at a table near us and we actually overheard them asking the waiter how to get reservations on the dance floor to sit next to a group of equally silvered-out, frosted ladies. Apparently, every Thursday, Las Brisas is blessed with the soothing sounds of some dude dressed in weird rockabilly attire from 1982 with a hairdo that looks like the lovechild of Donald Trump and Gene Simmons. Dead sexy, and evidently conducive to some serious senior snogging (little blue pill not included).

Anyway, Don and I perused the menu, which is a bit on the pricey side ($15-$18 for entrees, less for combo plates/salads). I went with taco salad because frankly, any salad that comes in a fried shell gives me the smilies. Both horizontal and vertical. But first, the chips and salsa. Surprisingly enough, while the salsa was definitely mild for obvious reasons, it had great flavor. Who knew? A salsa both you and the lady commandeering the Rascal can enjoy. And the margarita I ordered was terrific. Note: they’re VERY strong, so if you’re ever nearby the restaurant and see a Buick or old Caddy pulling out of the parking lot, STEER CLEAR…unless you want to be known as the guy who got iced by someone who could very well be rockin’ adult diapers.   

Back to the food. The taco salad was really good. Not spectacular, but it had big chunks of shredded chicken (all white meat), guacamole, tomatoes, sour cream, beans…and a touch of lettuce. All good stuff, and I finished the whole thing. Take that, two old ladies splitting (and gumming) a plate of cheese enchiladas. Would love to show you a pic of the salad, but dining in a place where the only thing brighter than the candle is the patrons’ hair, it’s hard to get a good shot. But take my word for it, it was good and worth the money.

There I am. Sipping my marg. Eating. But you can't see shit. At least I added this artistic border, yo.

So, I’ll admit, this post isn’t so much about the food as it is the restaurant itself. Food? Pretty darn good? Atmosphere? Off the charts if you can remember what you were doing when Kennedy was assassinated. And even if you’re not part of the Baby Boomer set like myself, it’s worth it to sit back, relax with a great margarita, and hope no one breaks a hip while shaking a tail feather on the dance floor.

Food Porn

Food porn. Sounds dirty, and can be (you know who you are, banana/cucumber aficionados), but in my family? It’s not about “getting off” in the traditional sense. It’s about a flavor orgasm. Or “flava” as the cool kids say. Too many quotation marks in the first paragraph? Consider each instance of punctuation a flavor orgasm and embrace it, prudes.

Take my brother Danny and me. That Cinnamon Toast Crunch we ate? Delicious. Know what made it more delicious? Admiring the beautiful, lick your lips-inducing photos on the cereal box. But that was just foreplay until we moved on to the dessert section of a cookbook. But not just ANY cookbook. The Good Housekeeping Illustrated Cookbook my beautiful grandmother, Frances Sifers, gave me on my 12^th birthday (the proof is in the note on the inside!). Just look at it! It’s gorgeous! LOOK AT IT!

Considering how long I've had this thing, still looks pretty good. Like it's had cookbook botox.

My grandmother always wrote a note in books she gave me. She kicked some serious ass when she picked this book.

Look at those desserts. Sure, the food styling is dated, but screw it. I would dunk my face into any one of those desserts.

Just like the pages of a Playboy stick together after being thoroughly “reviewed,” the pages of this glorious cookbook are bonded together (but hey, we read it for the recipes, not the photos…wink, wink). This poor Good Housekeeping cookbook has been assailed by the nubby fingers of hungry kids like Danny and me, turning the pages with one hand while the other hand does the dirty stuff (shoveling food into our mouths…duh, you pervs).

In the Bauer household, food porn goes beyond the kitchen table. It’s also prevalent in the bedroom. All of us like to eat in bed – usually the sweet stuff. Soooo naughty. Hiding candy and cookies in our bedrooms like they were paraphernalia was a regular occurrence for us kids.

Take Danny, for instance. This ADHD typhoon of a child would steal the sugar bowl – yes, the entire sugar bowl – and hide it under his bed like it was a Hustler magazine. But that’s not all. He would take all of the candy and sugary goodness we had in the house and stow it away in his closet when room under the bed was taken up by things like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures, Lego landscapes and of course, the damn sugar bowl. When all was said and done, he had transformed his closet into a candy bunker rivaling Charlie’s Chocolate Factory, sans the chocolate river and the creepy ass tunnel. But we did, mind you, have younger brother Brent, who made a fine stand-in for an Oompa-Loompa.

Danny also (and I’m still pissed off about this) stole my entire inventory of Girl Scout Almond Roca Cookies, the little sugar nympho. Pretty sure he still owes my dad money for that. Sidenote: Girl Scouts of America, if you ever bring back Almond Rocas, do NOT, I repeat, do NOT sell to a lanky guy who looks like this because he WILL have a full-on sugar relapse. He will probably murder someone for a box:

Danny may be the picture of health, but Almond Rocas are his kryptonite.

Fast forward 18 years. Today, I get my flava orgasms from the vast abundance of TV shows focused squarely on food (all hail the mighty Food Network!). Some folks watch TV to fill their shorts. I do it to fill my belly. These days, you’ve got cooking shows in HD, with LOTS of full-frontal close-ups. Might have to go change my skivvies just thinking about it. My massive bowl of spaghetti is good, but turn on some Giada and Mama Mia! My limp-noodled spaghetti is now erupting with authentic Italian goodness…while at the same time I’m marveling at how Giada stays so thin cooking all that pasta. Pretty sure she’s equipped with some sort of boob-powered fat vacuum, because that’s the only part on her body that’s big. Bitch.

Jesus H. Christ. It's just not fair.

 Anyway, I could go on and on about food porn, but really, if you want it, you can find it. Sure, it doesn’t come mailed to you in a discrete tan envelope, but that’s what’s so great about it – it’s discrete simply because it’s food. Take your mediocre plate of food, turn on the tube or thumb through an illustrated cookbook and you’ll see how much better your meal tastes. Hell, hide food under your bed like Danny if that’s what gets your tongue wagging (to eat, you filthy people). Whatever you decide, I support it, because it’s America, and nothing says freedom and the pursuit of happiness like food porn. And I’m spent. Excuse me while I roll over and go to bed.

BBQ + Denver = A One Night Stand

The day started out innocently enough. Got up a little after 4 a.m. like I normally do, did some P90X Plyometrics (this is how I can eat massive quantities of food without looking like a water buffalo in high heels), had my special morning smoothie and headed to the office. I’m the picture of health today, I told myself. But then, it happened. The rumble. The hunger rumble. But it’s too early, I told myself. Must ignore. But I couldn’t. So, I had my midmorning snack early – cottage cheese. I mean, if that doesn’t scream “look at me, I swim around in a sea of Muscle Milk nymphs and bodybuilder mermaids,” I don’t know what does.

Unfortunately, that didn’t cut it. Anyone who knows me is aware that when I’m really hungry, I make bad decisions. Case in point: I remembered I had some Boulder Canyon Malt Vinegar and Sea Salt chips leftover from a visit with the intern to the Spicy Pickle on Monday. So I told myself I’d have half of them because it was only 9:30 in the morning. I mean, who eats an entire bag of chips before noon? Well, sweet baby goat cheese, I’m damn good at lying to myself. I know full well that Lays had it right with the slogan “You can’t eat just one,” because I ate the entire bag. And guess what, my potato chip comrades? I was STILL hungry. 

It's "All Natural!" I can't think of a better way to start the day!

So when my boss suggested lunch at *cough, cough* a Denver “BBQ” establishment, I said yes…without hesitation. For shame! I should’ve known that with a name like “Bono’s,” I was in for a world of hurt. We got there and something was wrong immediately: it was too clean. Like “normal” restaurant clean. So clean in fact, that I was wearing a white shirt and didn’t get a drop of BBQ sauce on me – not one. And mind you, I’m the type of person who could be at a tea party with the Royals and somehow get crumpet crumbs in my thong line. Real BBQ restaurants make you feel like you need to bathe in Clorox…and you actually WANT to because you’re covered in sauce and it’s so worth it. Not here. But I let it slide.

On to the menu. Too many options. And there was a salad section. Like, entrée salads people! Um, if you’re going to a BBQ restaurant and want a salad, someone needs to nun chuck your ass…immediately. It’s a mockery of the BBQ culture. And I’m pretty sure you wear tighty-whities, lame sauce. The only salads a BBQ place should offer are mayonnaise-laden – hence, potato salad or coleslaw. And they’re sides, not entrees. Put that in your smoker and…smoke it.

I didn't even take a picture of the salad section...too embarrassing.

So, I didn’t order an f-ing salad. I instead got the two-meat special, which included pork and beef, plus two sides (sweet potato fries and beans for me – you’re welcome, my fellow coworkers who share a very small space with me). Oh, and a massive buttered slice of Texas Toast…wait, what? Yes, Texas Toast. Seriously folks, plain white Wonder Bread is all you need. It shouldn’t be extra thick, buttered and toasted – that robs the bread of its important purpose – to soak up the meat juices and sauce. Texas Toast is a waste of valuable stomach space. I mean, Jesus, not everything needs to be big in Texas. Get over yourself, big state with its own electrical grid (note: I have many friends from Texas – I hate you now…*winky face*).

Get off of the REAL food, Texas Toast. What a bully.

The meal was decent…once you drenched it in some sauce. But not just any sauce. They have four of them because just like the menu, they feel like more is better. Dislike. The best one is an attempt at KC Masterpiece. The worst is the “original” which tastes like someone took a bottle of mustard and threw in some spice rub mixed with moth balls from grandma’s closet. Hey, would you like fries with your mustard mothball meatpile?

Second from the right. Avoid at all costs. Don't even try it on a dare.

Man, I sound like a hater. Not at all. Just a snob, which is way better. Look, Denver BBQ is passable. But if you decide to come to Denver, don’t spend your precious “dolla-dolla billz, yo” at any of the BBQ places. The joints truly worth the a-hole claymore attack you’ll have on your porcelain friend are the Mexican places. You can put that in your smoker…and eat it. Fist pump! I’m out.

Food Oxymoron

I was recently introduced by my friend Lisa to a dish that deserves its own fan page: The Pizza Salad. At first, I was a bit skeptical. Sounds like some dude took a massive hit off a bong and thought, “hey man, I’m like totally jonesin’ for some pizza, but like, I’m gonna make it healthy and stuff, and put a salad on top. It’s like a taco salad, but, like, it’s pizza instead…and stuff.”

Pizza and a salad mixed into one? It sounds like an oxymoron. It’s like the “Victor Victoria” of pizzas (Am I a pizza or a salad? I’m so confused!) But I tried it…and frankly, it gave me tingles in my no-no place. It was so kick-ass that I’d probably give it as a gift. I’d call it a “stomach present.” No, John, this isn’t a present for YOU, it’s a present for that little guy [point at and tickle stomach].

What exactly is this she-male of the culinary world, you ask? Well, the place we go (Parisi on 44^th and Tennyson) has several variations, but I always get the classic one. These people are pizza architects. Their houses are probably built out of pizza dough and happiness. Basically, they take pizza dough, cover it in cheese, bake it in the special pizza oven (these should come standard in all homes, in my humble, but very important opinion) until it’s just a bit underdone. Then it’s topped with a salad of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, capers, onions and whole bunch of other goodness all tossed in creamy Caesar dressing. Then, they fold it over like it’s a massive taco, cut it into a few pieces and there you have it. Pizza Fuckin’ Salad.

No, that's not NYC-style pizza folded over - that's Pizza Salad, bitches!

Some highbrow foodies may consider it the red-headed stepchild of restaurant fare, which is absolutely fine with me. Their ignorance is my gain, because I’m pretty sure Pizza Salad is a superfood, which will keep me busy being awesome while they fatten up on foie gras and hatred.

So, long story short, while Pizza Salad might sound like the Chastity Bono of meals, this is a meal you’d actually WANT to eat.

Chocolate Anemia

At the office, there is a ton of food (read: chocolate) from Halloween through Easter. But come summer, everyone is all about getting bikini-ready and spurning what I consider to be the quintessential reason we’re on this earth: to eat chocolate. Oh, and bring about world peace. So, when someone brings in extra delicious chocolate in June, I eye it like a conquest…and then I conquer.

Today was one of those days. I’m what you’d call a chocolate zealot. Addict is probably more appropriate. If you see me uncharacteristically sweating, having intimate conversations with inanimate objects, NOT buying a pair of cute shoes, or arguing for a relaxed dress code at work that includes Zoobas, I’m experiencing chocolate anemia. And the only prescription for chocolate anemia is…you guessed it: chocolate.

So, when suffering from this debilitating malady and a coworker brings in a bag of Dove’s Bliss Crème de Menthe Meltaway chocolates (say that five times fast…with them in your mouth), you bet your sweet, sugary ass I’m digging in. Hard. And fast. I counted the wrappers: 10, not including the fortuitous donation of a mini Mr. Goodbar by our legal department (it’s so good, it should be illegal…queue sympathy bad joke laughter).

Notice the beautiful backdrop of the stapler and tape. I should be a food stylist.

That Dove Bliss in the background? In my belly.

Sure, it’s a lot, but hey, it’s summer chocolate hibernation mode. Need to build up enough chocolate antibodies in my system to persevere through the rest of the Season of Chocolate Dearth at the office. Granted, it may give me some added cushion, but hell, I need it anyway to weather the food storm that is coming all summer long. Mwah-ah-ah-ah-ah.

Bender: A Story of a Bachelorette Weekend | The Grand Finale

Sunday, Sunday, SUNDAY! Time to go to see my folks. After all the barf-inducing behavior, it was time for some good ‘ole fashioned Bauer family fun. But there was one thing missing. One very critical thing that I absolutely must have before I leave KC. If you haven’t guessed it, you’re stupid. Because it’s BBQ. KC BBQ, bitches!

I told my parents that Sam and I would pick up lunch. And I knew where I was going: Oklahoma Joe’s. It’s part gas station, part liquor store and part “the best BBQ in the world” restaurant. The hick’s hedonistic trifecta, if you will. But alas, my father told me that Oklahoma Joe’s is closed on Sundays. I cried on the inside (weeped is extreme, but it might have gotten to that point…not telling), but would not be deterred from having some KC BBQ. So, Sam and I headed to Southwest Blvd., readied our Spanish skills and hit up Quick’s. It, too, was closed. Dammit! So, our third stop was Rosedale BBQ, and as luck would have it, it was OPEN. Queue the heavenly “ahhhhh” music.

Sam and I hopped out of the car in delight and bum-rushed the glass door to get inside. Girls from Johnson County, KS can bum-rush too, you know. Haters. And frankly, we were hungry because neither of us had eaten good BBQ in years. We walked in and you could tell the manager knew we were in it to win it because she immediately asked us if we had been in before and what she could help us with. I said to her that we both hadn’t had BBQ in years and were grabbing food for my folks, my younger brother and niece, so we needed advice on what to get to adequately feed everyone. “Adequately” being relative.

She started rattling off suggestions, and before I knew it, we were saying yes to everything. It was like going to the grocery store hungry (yes, I absolutely need these frozen taquitos with fake chicken. And oooh, hot pocket-stuffed hot pockets are on sale!). I’m not what you’d call a “yes” person, but all be damned if smoked meat doesn’t make me agree to anything and everything. We ordered two pounds of burnt ends, a pound of pulled pork, a half-pound of beef strips, a full slab of ribs, bread, a quart of heart-stopping twice-baked potato salad, cucumber salad (needed something semi-healthy), beans and coleslaw. Oh, and an order of fried mushrooms for good measure – I chalked it up to my dad mentioning it, but really, it was for me. Enough food to feed a small army…and give it heartburn and/or the runs.

The manager was awesome, though, and didn’t bat an eye. She immediately had one of the cooks bring out a box that warranted its own zip code and started loading. There were several men at the bar looking at us two girls like we must be pregnant or something. Each time the manager added more to the box, their eyes get wider. I gave them the “This isn’t all for us” line, but I’m pretty sure they thought we were simply competitors in an eating contest. And I really didn’t care. It took about 20 minutes to get everything together, then it was time for the bill. When it was all said and done, with tip, we dropped around $100. I consider it an investment in being a better person. Self actualization, if you will.

That there is a box full of $100 worth of KC BBQ, aka a vegetarian's nightmare. The horror!

We got to my parents’ house and my dad took one look at the box and uttered, “Jesus Christ.” Not that it’s out of the ordinary for my dad to say that, but he was my inspiration for my implacable food desires, so him saying that told me, “Holy ballsack, the Bauers might actually get full today.” My brother Brent looked at it like he would one of his female conquests and said, “Hell yes!” Another one of my dad’s legacies, but then again, he grew up in the 60s (Brent, what’s YOUR excuse, prostidude?). Put that on the resume.

I grabbed the box, waddled in the house (so THIS is what it’s like to walk when pregnant with a 20-pound baby!) and we started digging in. It was a smorgasbord of goodness. 

2 lbs of burnt ends. Yes.

1/2 lb of delicious sliced brisket. Oh yes.

1 full slab of ribs, 1 lb of shredded pork, twice baked potato salad, cucumber salad, beans and cole slaw. Yes, yes, yes!

Pretty sure I ate my weight in meat. Vegetarians and PETA might have stoned me in the front yard if they had the chance...good thing is, my stomach was so full of meat that it was like a trampoline. Throw that stone…if you’re okay with it bouncing off my stomach and killing an errant chipmunk.

Then my niece pointed to my dad’s computer and said, “Hey Mickey!” Apparently Brent introduced her to the song and she’s obsessed. We turned it on, started dancing, and I soon realized that eating BBQ and dancing immediately after does not mix. But kids don’t know that, so I shook my butt and moved my arms, but definitely didn’t whip out any of the dancing in the arsenal of what I like to call “Francie’s Sweet Moves.” Many of you may have seen them and were wowed (negative impressions count).

We sat, talked and soon it was time for Sam and me to leave. We actually left my parents’ place a little early because God forbid we didn’t have Foo’s Frozen Yogurt before I left. I chugged a little Diet Coke, belched to all high heavens, and made some extra room in the tum-tum. After Foo’s, Sam and her folks dropped me off at the airport and I was off to Denver. On the plane, I told myself I needed to go on a diet. At least a meatless diet. I knew I was lying to myself, but it made me feel better for a little while.

Don picked me up, and believe it or not, I was hungry again. And I hadn’t even “made room” if you know what I mean. Which, sidenote, reminds me of a story of a guy I used to work with who loved Indian Buffet so much, he’d actually do a road game in the nasty bathroom to allow for full-on gorging. Sick and awesome.

So where else to take a fine lady like myself than Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar & Grill. Don suggested it, just because we’d seen it being built and I had called it Toby McGuire’s Bar (he still makes fun of me, but hell, I don’t know country music, dude!), and I said, why not? I mean, might as well go out with a bang. And I did. In the form of a 12 oz. NY strip – medium rare, of course – and a massive baked potato.

We were THISCLOSE to getting the fried Twinkies, but we both opted to wait for the Colorado State Fair to sample it in a true carnival atmosphere. Carnies scare the crap out of me, but the food makes up for it.

So, that was the end of my epic weekend. Lots of food, lots of drinking, and LOTS of decisions, both good and bad (but more bad than good – just the way I like it). Can’t wait until next time…and neither can my liver and colon.

Bender: A Story of a Bachelorette Weekend | Part III

So, after having downed four large OJs the morning of the bridal shower (Hi, my name is Francie, and I’m an orange juice-aholic), I was feeling pretty darn good and ready to face the ladies who got to see table-napping, wine-slurping, crotch-revealing Francie the night before. By this time, we had ushered Carolyn to her car to get ready at home. I put on my outfit, which was a bit tight due to a case of the McD’s triple burrito bloat (some guys like curves, I guess…get over here, Grimace!), but whatevs. And then we were off!

We left early to make sure we arrived on time, but I soon realized that Kristi’s sleep demon left remnants of mind scurvy because she had no idea where the bridal shower was. “Um, Krust? Pretty sure this is not the way to get to the shower.” “Yes it is, it’s at Carolyn’s parents’ house,” she retorted. “Um, no it’s not, it’s way out in BFE (if you don’t know what BFE is, let me Google that for you).” Sam, being the dutiful friend she is, fished out the invite, and sure enough, it was out in BFE, at her cousin’s house out south.

Kristi has lived in KC all her life, so she knew where to go. But you see, here’s the ‘ish: the house is located on Foster. But there are like 10 Fosters. We drove around in circles and soon hit the corner of Foster and Foster. Pretty sure the city planner drank as much as I did the night before and thought it would be super hilarious to confuse stupid people…or those with that oh-so-special day-after head smog. So, us being women mustered up the strength to – gasp! – ask for directions! After a few more twists and turns, we ended up at the shower.

We were late. I was thinking, “Dammit, Carolyn is going to be pissed.” Little did I know that Carolyn was in her own special place at that moment – the place you visit where it’s great when you’re crapping, but you hate it when you’re up-chucking. Carolyn emerged and looked like she had been bitch-slapped by Kristi’s morning demon. “Yeah, so those breakfast burritos? They’re no longer in my stomach,” she uttered. You see, she was still drunk in the morning, so her hangover was a bit delayed. I patted her on the back, told her to feel better, then took a long look around. While not everyone from the bachelorette party was there, many were, and I thought, “All of these girls have seen something they shouldn’t have. Or should have, depending on if they swing that way.”

Anyway, I made my apologies, acknowledged my a-hole behavior, and we proceeded to drink punch, eat fruit pizza (Cookies? Good! Cream cheese mixed with sugar aplenty? Good! Fruit? Hell, fructose will help with the hangover, so also GOOD!) and mini chicken salad sandwiches, and open Carolyn’s presents.

This picture was taken by Danielle Ross, the queen of all that is photography. If you ever, EVER post a picture taken by her and you haven't given her credit, she will cut you. Thanks for the great photo, Miss D. I'm starving.

Wait, what?!? Well, you see, Carolyn still felt like complete donkey doo-doo, so we all agreed to each open a gift for her and read the card. It was actually kind of fun, because everyone got to get involved. And I felt like I was at a poetry reading. I thought about going Beatnik, but figured the awesome rhythm and voice inflection might stimulate Carolyn’s gag reflex. Plus, Allen Ginsberg is ugly. I refrained.

So, we were there for a couple of hours (Carolyn only excused herself once!), bid adieu, then headed to Sam’s house because Kristi had to go to a wedding that night. You’d think we’d plan for a chill night, right? Nope. Earlier that day, Sam had said, “So, I kind of committed to something for tonight with my parents.” She has this way of saying things. It’s like “So, I’m going to make you clean toilets in a frat house, but I’m going to smile and speak in this really high, angelic voice so you think it’s super awesome.” Works every GD time. “Oh?” I ask. “So, hope you like jazz!” she said, overcompensatingly enthusiastic. Here, I was thinking that Sam’s parents are in their 60s-70s, so after having drunk my face off, I now have to sit through a session of some awful Kenny G/Muzak-inspired garbage they call “smooth jazz.” Something my BF warned me about. I’m like, it must be karma for being a full-on douche nozzle. Plain and simple. And I agreed to it, because I needed to be punished.

Well, much to my surprise, her parents took us to Jardine’s, which always has GOOD jazz. So, my visit to the 7^th circle of hell was put on hold…for now. We got there, I ate crab cakes (God bless you, East Coast. You have proven that having crabs isn’t always a bad thing.) and a fabulous salmon dish, had a few drinks, and listened to some of the best jazz I’ve heard in years. So, all in all, fantastic evening. And at this point, I thought about Don because I had made a good decision. But the weekend hadn’t ended. Read part four for the final segment of the epic weekend.