I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll never be what you’d refer to as a “skinny girl.” I will always have at least 20-30 extra pounds, even when I do get past those pesky 50 pounds I need to lose to get down to the magical 20-30 pounds above my target healthy weight.
So really, I’m just talking about those extra 20-30 pounds I’ll never lose because I refuse to give up certain things in my epicurean life. I’ve tried to use turkey meat in my sauce instead of meat meat. It’s just not the same. I don’t cook enough as it is, and when I use turkey meat, it makes me want to throw away what I actually made and never cook another meal again. From here forward, I’ll always use meat meat so that I feel like I can be an actual food fixer for my family instead of a food fixer who throws away the food she cooks.
Kraft Real Mayo. Don’t give me that Hellman’s Mayonaise or that crap that’s not even mayo, Miracle Whip. There’s nothing miracle about that whipped up jar of salad dressing masquerading as creamy goodness of Real Mayo. I will accept Patrick making his famous-in-our-house just-like-the-real-thing-imitation Sex Sauce (see: a delicious everything sauce created by our former employer, Fudpucker’s) using Hellman’s, but he buys it in small jars just for the purpose of making the sauce.
AND OH SWEET BABY JEEBUS don’t try to pass off that “Lite” or “No Fat” Kraft Real Mayo. That shite tastes like the ass-end of a homeless man suffering from Crohn’s Disease. I’d rather go hungry than use that impostor Lite or No Fat mayo. My mom loves me so much, she buys me my own Kraft Real Mayo for her house when I come to visit. I don’t think of it as enabling a fatty; I think of it as a nugget of love from my Mama for my snobbish Mayo appetite.
To go with my Kraft Real Mayo, I’m sort of a huge sandwich bread snob. OK, not “sort of,” I am. I don’t need the expensive, fancy-pants bread that’s baked fresh daily or the kind of the shelves that comes double bagged for no apparent reason. I need my plain ole store brand Honey Wheat sammich bread. AND LORD & OPRAH IN HEAVEN IF YOU TRY TO GIVE ME THAT BUTTER BREAD CRAP. In college, I had a roommate who had many more issues than buying butter bread, but for this scenario, I’m focusing on just that one personality flaw. Butter bread has no purpose. None. Fake butter flavor on sandwich bread should go the ways of Michael Jackson and his wife, Elizabeth Taylor, and die. That bitch of a psycho roommate bought butter bread, and I STUPIDLY made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Friends. When I tell you that I still remember the rancid-like taste in my mouth of that PB&J on butter bread sammich, I wish I was joking. It’s hard to remember a more foul-tasting food than that butter bread PB&J sandwich I ate some 14 years ago.
Yes, I am a food snob. No, I am not a chi-chi foo-foo-food-only eater. I just likes what I likes, and there’s no way I can see myself giving up what I like, even if it means I’ll never wear a bikini or fit into a size 6.
I can’t ever give up hosting parties in my mouth.
What’s your never-give-up food?
Sweet Baby Jeebus & Oprah, you best not say butter bread or I swear to the Ghost of Oprah, I’ll hunt you down and stab you with my spork.