The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted: Chain Restaurant Edition

NOTE: I actually wrote this yesterday, but apparently still think it is 2009 as I entered this in the publish date, sending it to the archives. Did I mention wine was involved?

I picked up a book yesterday by the amazing Elizabeth Berg, whom I quoted in a post many months ago, titled The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted: and Other Small Acts of Liberation. I checked it out of the library not only because I love this amazing author, but because the title touched on an idea I've had for a while in the back of my mind for a post. What would your ideal day of food indulgence consist of? Notice I did not use the adjective "culinary" since, as I was mentally laying out my own day, very few of the things I want to eat can be described with that adjective without a sarcastic tone of voice. Before I begin exposing my deepest, most shameful food preferences to the harsh light of day I challenge you, dear readers to join in. Don't you dare sit there laughing at my love of that cheese you spray out of a can. Since this blog has the annoying "Anonymous" setting for comments, I expect to hear about your love of leftover spaghetti with Ragu reheated in a pan with melted butter as well (that means you, K).

So for breakfast I think I'd have to start out strong and hit Dunkin' Donuts with a vengeance. Of course, I'd be getting a whole dozen so I could include all of my top picks, as I have discussed ad nauseum (sidebar, my oldest has introduced my to a new deep-fried favorite - the glazed stick. It's a glazed cake donut log, that to be honest, does looks like a turd, but damn, is it good). There is something so liberating about buying such mass quantities of baked goods you actually run out of selections and stare blankly at Mobin when he asks you "What else?", to fill out your order. I'd like to say this scenario is only a fantasy, and I have never eaten that many donuts myself, but my thirty-fifth birthday hangover made this vision a reality and I felt oddly fine after consuming roughly three pounds of fried dough. And no, I did not eat the entire dozen. I begrudgingly let H have one - the lame glazed one.

Lunch would, without a shadow of a doubt, be a Super Melt combo at Friendly's - also known as the seventh circle of hell for H. It is truly an act of charity when he allows us to go there as a family. Yes, I will admit, the service is ridiculously bad, even when you arrive at the I've-been-up-since-six-with-my-kids-so-this-IS-lunchtime-to-me hour of eleven thirty. But the food? Out-friggin-standing. Where else can you get a Three Cheese Turkey Super Melt that has turkey, bacon, Swiss cheese and cheez sauce, grilled between two slices of butter-soaked cheese bread and then, under the same roof, be able to order a Reese's Pieces sundae served in a goblet big enough that they stupidly bring two spoons as if you are going to share it with your judgmental husband? Thank God our local franchise has one of those play-til-you-win stuffed animal claw games so H can occupy himself winning toys for the offspring as I stuff my face and spare me the beleaguered eye rolling. This from the man who eats Taylor Pork roll, which they call Taylor "ham". Unless pig rectum counts, there's no ham in there, my friend.

If I could possibly eat after all of this, I'd have to finish my day off with hot dogs. You all know I love, love, love hot dogs (the more I write, the more I realize how much I have already written about food and am a little embarrassed). I don't want any fancy, schmancy ones either. There is a local hot dog joint here in New Town that makes those monstrosities called "splitters", or deep fried hot dogs. While there are many things I enjoy fried, even I think frying a tube of nitrates in hot grease is overkill. Even in my worst hungover state, even post housewarming party, I react to H's suggestion we have these things for dinner as if he asked me to sup on dog shit. I am frankfurter purist. I want them straight from the murky depths of a New York City pushcart, covered in the-brine-kills-the-bacteria sauerkraut, and two packets of Gulden's mustard. I want to eat them at Rockefeller Center, with H, overlooking the empty ice rink on a spring evening, with a beer in a brown paper bag.

This concludes the tour of my gustatory Hall of Shame. If I had extended the time frame, and was not totally embarassed by my ridiculous love of cheap food, I could have included several entrees at The Cheesecake Factory and Taco Bell. The Bell, incidentally, was where they knew me by name, during my first pregnancy, when I topped out close to two-hundy. H was unaware of my frequent Stuffed Burrito consumption as I would go on my way to and from doctor's appointments, and laughed his ass off when they greted me at the drive thru during my ninth month. Only fear of my crushing him with my enormous girth shut him up.

So let me have it, dear readers - especially you young guys who think you can eat the crap you eat for the rest of your lives. One, in particular, introduced H to tuna salad sandwiches with bacon on them. I throw up in my mouth even writing about it.