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.
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.
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