Quickie

I have to be quick because my laptop is dying and I want to copy and paste this message to all of my blogs. I will be gone for about a month and a half. So, sadly, I won't be able to post anything during that timespan. I leave tomorrow. BUT! *heroic voice* I'll be back. . . with more eating stories, I'm sure

It's . . . orange.

         My brother and I went camping with some friends, and I had purposed to be as non-picky as possible. I didn't want to be a burden, so I planned on shutting up and eating . . . whatever.

         How pathetic. I failed at the first try. We (er they) had hot dogs for Lunch. I felt like the biggest quitter as I spread peanut butter and jelly on two slices of bread. Bad, bad, bad, Rose. Bad Rose. This was my only free card. Everything else I was going to eat. No exceptions.

         I got a little worried when my friend's mom kept saying things like: "I'm making such-and-such. Now, just give it a chance. It's good. It just looks worse than it is." How bad does it look? Everyone kept assuring me it tasted good. Now that I'm thinking back, did I have a terrified look in my eyes or something? Is that why everyone kept telling me how "it isn't as bad as it looks".
         My true assurance was that it didn't smell so bad. Smelled kind of good. Like, macaroni and cheese mixed with a spicy Doritos smell. Strange combination, but still smelled good. Which is a godsend. I don't know what I would've done if I didn't like the smell. That's something I can't get past.

         She declared dinner was ready with a new flow of reassuring words, "just try it." "Taste a little bit." "Give it a chance." Of course, this only scared me even more. A food that's supposed to be good, shouldn't need so much backup in the advertising department, if you ask me.
         I was one of the last to serve myself. I wanted to get somewhat of the same portions as everyone else (food peer pressure, I guess), and I had to see how they were preparing their bowls. First, they'd poor a handful of - go figure - Doritos to fill up the Styrofoam bowl, grab a spoon, and head over to the huge pot. Actually, I think it was a dutch oven.
         Slowly, I poured Doritos in my bowl like everyone else, carefully grabbed a spoon, and gently pulled a napkin from a bag. At this point, I was just stalling. My friend, who had already scooped some stuff for herself when I wasn't looking, politely asked if I wanted her to pour me some. I smiled and nodded, "yes, please."
         The first thing I noticed was: this stuff is orange. ORANGE, mind you. As in: orange. As in, that not-so-yellow color that some Hummers are painted in. Yeah, that ugly color? This stuff, was orange. And I love the color orange. It's my favorite color. But as a stew-thing?? Not so much.
         And not only was it orange. It had little red specks in it, it was thick, and there were brown lumps. This thing could growl at me at any given moment.

         As I sat down with my bowl full of orange glop, I took a quick survey of how everyone else was eating theirs. Some were eating it like a nacho type deal, using the Doritos on the bottom to scoop the glop. Some would break up the chips and mix them in with it. I decided to go for both tactics, starting with the nacho-technique. I pinched a clean corner of a chip that was half an inch away from being completely submerged in orange. Some of the stuff was already coating it, so I took a bite. It was warm, thick, and cheesy with a little hint of spice and the chip added a crunch. Not bad . . . I was actually liking this stuff! I polished off that bowl in no time flat, while listening to my friend's mom list off the ingredients. The brown lumps, I found, where ground beef. And somewhere in the stuff was cream of mushroom. Who'da thunk, right? I actually liked this orange stuff.

         You know. I was thinking, maybe it wouldn't be so scary if the stuff actually had a name. Like how in "Over the hedge" they name the hedge "Steve" to make it less scary? Maybe that logic would work the same way here. Just thinking out loud.

In and OUT, OUT, OUT

         My older brother loves In-N-Out. Loves it. Whenever we pick him up from someplace and ask him where he wants to go to eat, he always says In-N-Out. I don't know why we even ask. Well, after he took his SAT test, guess where we went to eat.

         Usually, I order a shake and fries. "Rose, what are you going to have?" "Shake and fries." It's a given. But not today. *exhales* I'm a new person, right? Right. Okay, sure.
         I told my mom to order whatever came to her and ran outside to get a table. I don't know if it was because I really, really wanted a good table, or because I was afraid I'd talk myself out of it if I stood there and listened to mom order.
         Next to the table I picked were two girls and their dad. Secretly, I watched them to see how they ate their burgers while pretending to be on my cell phone and mentally prepared myself for what was to come. The eating seemed easy enough. Open your mouth wide, shove the burger in as much as possible, take a bite, pull burger away from face. Done. Yeck, don't you hate that word burger. Call me a tom-boy, but it sounds like booger. Burger, booger, burger, booger. "Eat your booger. I mean, burger." See? Have I officially grossed you out? Now you know how I feel.
        
         Mom ordered one with grilled onions for me. When I first heard that, I thought grilled onions meant a coil of onions that they threw on the grill for a little while. It'd look like a neat white, layered circle with black lines criss-crossed on it. Boy was I wrong. These were onions that had been prechewed, digested and spewed in between two buns. Delicious. The patty seemed to be cowering in fear also. It was as far to the back as it could be, hiding under a blanket of cheese. I guess I had been staring at the booger for a long time with a disgusted look on my face because my brother finally grew impatient enough to tell me to just eat it already. I took a bite.
         It was mostly bread. I'll give them kudos for toasting the insides first. I took a second bite, I don't really remember what was in that one, but it did have unions in it. Reeky, slimy, nasty union pieces. And they're purple! Am I the only one who thinks there's something wrong with that? I took a couple more bites, apparently making a face the entire time. (I can't help it if I'm expressive.) I had to prove that I could eat this concoction. Ugh, but it was just COVERED in unions. About halfway through, I decided that I had done enough. I did try it, after all.
         Next time, I should order it without unions. My mom told me. Of course, you never ask a woman who has just given birth if she would like to do it again. But I am fearless. So, if the time does come up, I shall embrace it with open arms. I'm just not guaranteeing that I'll enjoy that hug. For now, you fast-food lovers can keep your boogers.

What a disappointment

        We went to Hometown Buffet today. My usual route is to go from the salad to the jello, maybe soup if they have cheesy potato (the best), top it off with some pasta or pizza (I could eat well if I lived in Italy), and then hit the dessert bar. But not today. No. Today I was a new woman, living on the wild side, ready for adventure. Of course, I didn't realize that until after I had my salad. But as I ate the crisp leaves with the subtle juicy blasts, my whole plate drowned in ranch dressing and sprinkled with croutons, I discovered that today was a new day. Finished with my salad, I marched toward the plate stack with a new sense of purpose.
         I will admit, I took a quick survey of the soups before advancing on my quest, but upon finding no cheesy potato, and without taking a moment of silence to feel sorry for myself, I carried on. My goal was to pick the foods that I would have otherwise passed by, if I hadn't been reborn, that is.
         I looked in one of the deep metal trays. Swimming in some cream-looking type of thick liquid were these round white lumps about the size of a big silver dollar. I could also make out peas and chopped carrots in the cream-stuff. On the "germaphobe relaxer window" (GRW. That's the glass that you sometimes forget is there, and you either bang your chin against it, or your plate, or the serving spoon, or anything that rudely reminds you of the GRWs existence. In an attempt at pouring soup in a bowl, I was once able to punch the inside of the GRW and smack my forehead on it in the time span of two seconds. Anyway. .) on the GRW was a little sign that read "Chicken Dumplings". I leaned in a bit closer to examine. I guessed those white lumps were chicken. That couldn't be so bad, so I scooped a lump and dumped it on my plate. I can almost swear that the man behind me was impressed that I had taken such a bold move. I mean, it was obvious that these chicken dumplings weren't a big hit since they were the only tray perfectly intact, while the neighboring trays were almost empty.
         Next to the Chicken Dumplings was, I'm sorry to announce, what looked like chopped up brains. Hey, that's what it looked like. Okay, except that these brains were evidently cooked after they were chopped. My mom was the one who pointed the brains out to me. She said that I had to try them. I scooped some of these on my plate also.
         With two-thirds of my plate occupied, there was enough room for one more item. I had done a lot of sacrificing, so I figured that I could pick a food that I new I liked. I plopped an enchilada on my plate.

         Returning to the table, I started with the chicken dumpling. When I cut it in half, I found that the lump wasn't chicken, but a kind of biscuit. In fact, I couldn't find any chicken in it. Instead, it was a thick biscuit, dunked in gravy. It was actually pretty good. It just needed a little more spice or something to make it tastier, in my opinion. But then again, what do I know, right? I didn't even know that a dumpling meant some sort of bread glob. Oh well, learn something every day.
         The brown brains was a nice blast of taste, completely different from that of the chicken dumpling. The chicken dumpling was a kind of a sick-at-home-in-need-of-a-comfort-food type of dish. But the brains (which was really just chicken. I think it was called, "Bourbon Chicken". But I'm not positive.) was kind of a sweet, teriyaki type deal. It was good. My only complaint was that they chopped them up into such tiny, dime-sized pieces that it took forever to eat them all. (Especially, since I went one at a time.) When I was done eating them, it was time to reward myself with the beautiful enchilada that I brought.
         I used my napkin to wipe the fork clean. (I'm not a germaphobe, I just don't like intermingling the food tastes. There are some things I can stay true to from my picky-eating life.) Then I slowly pressed the side of the fork into the tortilla folds. I guess that in the back of my mind, I expected a river of red sauce to come flowing out, but nothing happened. The tortilla caved, then bounced up as I took the fork away. It split exactly where I wanted it to, but it seemed too clean for an enchilada. When I ate it, I could determine just how long it was sitting under the heat lamp. Long enough for the top of the tortilla, the one exposed to the elements, to start dehydrating.
         Now, I don't know about you, but I'm used to my enchiladas being tucked cozily into a vat of red sauce and topped with melted cheese. The whole thing should stretch when you pull it apart. as if it's waking up. But this one didn't do that. It wasn't in a vat of red sauce (that should've been my first warning). Instead of being tucked in, it's like they flopped on top of the covers and went to sleep there. The inside was cheese good enough for me any day. But with the shortage on sauce, there wasn't that much taste and the texture was a little tough. *sigh* My reward was a sad disappointment. Don't worry, though. I made it up to myself by getting a slice of pumpkin and pecan pie. Now, that was good.

Just chew

     To start my blogging off, I'm proud to announce I ate everything that my wonderful mother prepared for dinner this evening: chicken, rice, and cooked vegetables. Doesn't sound so bad, huh? Tsk, tsk, don't be so easily deceived, my friend.
     Now, the first two were a no-brainer; baked chicken breast coated with spices and at last minute spread with marinara sauce and sprinkled with mozzarella cheese. Tasted like a visiting chicken from Italy mistakenly found itself in our new wave oven. Not so lucky for the chicken, but oh so lucky for us. It was perfectly cooked, the spices flowed together in unison - personally, I like a lot of cheese - but it was yummy never the less. Even though the rice was new, it wasn't that big a deal since I've had boxed "rice-aroni" (I think that's what it's called) before. Instead, this time it was cheese and garlic rice. What a perfect combination. But then came . . . the dreaded veggies.
      Apparently, they were previously frozen and mom simply followed the direction on the bag or box or whatever container the things were stored in for - who knows - how many years they had been in our freezer. Honestly, on the outside, they didn't look that bad. Kind of like a stir fry without the meat. Colorful, and they smelled good. I thought for an ignorant second, "hey, this can't be so bad." I purposed on trying everything. So, if I could eat at least one of each vegetable, I'd be fine.

      I stabbed a thin, yellow, and mushy square with my fork. Upon further examination, I found that it was a bell pepper. Hmm. I've had bell peppers before in my Thai food. Seasoned well, they really aren't that bad. Looking in the pot, I found that all the vegetables seemed to be coated in some brown-ish sauce. Maybe that sauce was tasty - spicy, or even sweet. It was possible. I took a longing glance at the drooping yellow thing at the end of my fork before popping it in my mouth. Nope. The brown stuff didn't have a strong taste or much of a taste at all. This disspointing fact was found as I quickly chewed the bitter, squishy, yet nonconforming slice in order to force it down as soon as possible. Phew, I was done. Next up: a string bean.
     I don't think I've ever eaten string beans before. My parents weren't really into the whole "kids, eat your vegetables" act. Which is a good thing because if they were, I'd probably boycott vegetables even more than I do now. With this second taste test, I thought ahead and took a smaller bite. Actually, those weren't so horrible. Crunchy, with a slightly bitter-sweet taste. They were cleared from my plate the fastest.
     There was a little white ball of a thing that I couldn't identify until I started chewing. Yeck. I never liked unions. Cooked carrots wasn't new, simply another reminder of what I didn't like. Now I was getting into a rhythm. I stuck a little cherry-looking tomato in my mouth.
     The very second my teeth clamped down on it, it's as thought it screamed in horror, exploding into the most disgusting taste in the world. Utterly bitter, strong, and nasty juices flooded rapidly into my mouth. I almost threw every table etiquette book out the window in order to spit it out. But that would be unlady like. So I chewed. Chew, chew, chew, keep chewing, it's almost over. Okay, chew faster, faster. That's good enough. Swallowing in triumph, I sighed in relief. Phew. I think that'll do for one day of food venturing. Job well done, Rose. Time for dessert.