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.

Bender: A Story of a Bachelorette Weekend | Part II

Nine hours and zero monkey incidents later, I found myself in bed with Carolyn and Sam, texting my boyfriend. It was like an episode of “Gossip Girl,” minus the teenage hormonal bitchiness and the Manolos. Here’s how the texting convo went:

Francie: I made some bad decisions.

Don: Hungover? Jail? Tattoos? Smooth Jazz?

Francie: I passed out at dinner. I also apparently showed my crotch.

Don: To whom?

Francie: Everyone at dinner,

Don: Should I even ask why? Glad we had that talk about decision-making. So…awkward bridal shower coming up.

Francie: To say the least.

Don: Well, good luck, feel better and still have some fun. Maybe aim for “better” decisions since “good” ones seem out of reach on this trip.

Francie: Better decision: Going to McDonald’s.

But let me backtrack a bit, because the conversation didn’t happen that fast. You see, during this text conversation, Sam, Carolyn and I were all in this double bed complaining about how hungry we are. “All I want is a breakfast taco,” Sam said. “Okay, Texas, we call them breakfast burritos here,” I said. “But yeah, I could eat the holy hell out of some breakfast burritos.” Carolyn agreed, somewhat succinctly: “Need food.” The problem was, Kristi was asleep, and anyone who knows Kristi knows full well that if you want to live past the morning, you DO NOT go in there and wake her up. She’s possessed by the devil until she wakes up naturally.

We went back and forth for about 30 minutes talking about how hungry we were. During this time, I discovered a “Beware of Dog” sign in my suitcase. Yeah, I apparently stole a sign on my way home. I was horrified because I figured I had stopped off next door and ripped it off the neighbor’s fence. Luckily for me, Kristi’s hubby was sober when I came home and told me I stole it from Carolyn’s friend Allison. Even better! Man, I’m really good at making first impressions.

After making arrangements to return the sign to its rightful owner, the growls of our stomachs overcame us once again. Sam said, “Man, if only we had a car.” To which Carolyn replied, “Hey, I have a car.” Eureka! We scrambled out of bed, me bra-less with crazy hair and smeared makeup, Carolyn in her shirt from the night before, exchanging a pair of Umbros for jeans, and Sam still in her cute signature Sam pajamas because that’s how she rolls. We’ll call them Samjamas.

So yes, we had a car. Now, who to drive? Francie, still drunk. Carolyn, still drunk. Kristi, sleeping morning demon…and probably still drunk. That left Sam, adorable Sam. Sam who hadn’t driven in five years thanks to a life in NYC and Europe. But how hard could it be, it’s just like riding a bike, right?

With Carolyn by her side like a 10^th grade Driver’s Ed instructor, Sam situated herself in the driver’s seat, checked all the mirrors, started the car and was ready to roll. Well, ready to roll once Carolyn helped her put the car in drive. A few dozen stops and starts later, and we were moving. “It’s just like riding a bike” Sam said cheerily, to which Carolyn responded, “Sam, you need to apply the breaks because that there is a stop sign.” Even hung over, Carolyn remained ever eloquent. And then there they were, the golden arches, glistening in the humid KC air. Tears and fist pumps followed, I’ll let you decide who did what.

We got to the McD’s drive-through and now had to figure out what we wanted. I was looking through all the meals when Carolyn said, “Let’s just get a buttload of burritos.” Brilliant! Sam said, “Well how many? I could do two or three.” I responded, “Three for me, mos def.” So we all decided on 10. Then, to the drinks. “I want a massive glass of OJ,” I said (I had been bitching about needing OJ all morning). Then everyone concurred that OJ was a must. So we got four large OJs. Then Carolyn turned to her right and saw a sign for the new frozen strawberry lemonades. “I want that,” she said. We all looked over and agreed that we should get some of those too. So we ordered two.

We got to the window and ordered, and the total was around $30. $30?!? That’s the most I’ve ever spent at McD’s, but then again, we were all hungry and I’d be damned if I didn’t get some food in my belly pronto. We grabbed our massive bag of burritos, our six drinks and sped on home (okay, not “sped” because Sam drives like a grandma). 

We sat at the dining room table pretending to be civilized, but there was nothing civilized about us. We looked like we had been to Gitmo and back. I dug in and couldn’t seem to get the food in my mouth fast enough. “France, it’s not like you won’t have the chance to eat again,” said Sam. I looked at her, smiled, and continued to eat like the piggies eat. 

Kristi soon exorcised her morning demon and joined us to share in the breakfast fun. She ate maybe one burrito (lame sauce), while Sam and I devoured three each. Carolyn got through 1.5 before she needed to go lie down. Meanwhile, I finished my OJ and decided to try one of the frozen strawberry lemonades. 

Big mistake. It was like lemon-scented floor cleaner mixed with cough syrup, and while that’s gross in itself, being hungover makes it way worse. Like drinking from a toilet, only worse (so I guess that makes us as bad as our dogs and cats). Sam was like, “It can’t be that bad” and took a swig. She choked on it and agreed that the concoction was 100 percent pure nastiness. Of course, Carolyn was now curious, but before she took a sip, she mixed it up. I’m like, “Duh, probably should’ve done that first.” But alas, she tried it and it still tasted like a mouthful of evil. So evil, in fact, that it was probably what put Carolyn over the edge at her shower. But you’ll have to wait for part three to learn about that specialness.