Ever Seen Grease in the Winter?

"I don't recall the breadsticks here being so greasy," I said, gesturing toward the paper that lined my tray — now translucent in any spots touched by bread.

"Oh, yeah," responded my friend. "They're pretty greasy."

"Hey," she continued. "Did you know there's a dinosaur in your grease?"


"You're right!" I said. "I'm going to save the paper and sell this on eBay. It's like the Virgin Mary, only... I'm being visited by a brachiosaurus instead."


Later, after complaining about how full we were, we stopped by the closest Steak and Shake for a sippable turtle sundae.

It was here that we were exposed to truth in advertising.

We both normally eat healthier than this — promise.

Dinner with Madre

My parents seldom — nay, never — travel. In fact, it's a wonder I've made good on my wanderlust, when you consider how averse my family is to wandering too far from home (our longest trip was five hours from home by car... once, when I was four).

But I digress.

In honor of their 40th wedding anniversary, my sister and I scraped together what we could to help my parents take another road trip (they refused to fly) — this time three states and nine hours away "in the mountains."

We paid for their hotel, their gas, and I believe we even gave them more than enough money to eat decent meals two times a day (breakfast was provided at their hotel). We bought an atlas; road maps; printed directions (thanks, Mapquest); and also presented them with a Visitor's Guide, underscoring cool places to dine.

So imagine my chagrin when my mother revealed to me not only that she and my father had cooked "Healthy Choice" dinners in the microwave one night, but also other related disagreements they had in regards to food choices.

And, I swear to God, here's what she said next:

Your dad wanted to go to Arby's, but I told him I wanted something with more substance than that. I mean, we're on vacation. So we drove around town a little more and ate at Kentucky Fried Chicken.

When I asked if KFC was also at my father's discretion, she made it quite clear that she loved KFC and that it does, indeed, have more "substance" than Arby's.

But, anyway, if there's one lesson my sister and I learned, it's this:

If we ever do this again, we're making sure their hotel room does NOT have a microwave. And rather than cash or a prepaid Visa, we'll just give them gift cards to specific restaurants.

Maybe even something fancy, like Long John Silvers.

W.W.B.D. (What Would Bloggers Do)

I had dinner at a quasi fancy-pants restaurant (i.e. fairly expensive but no dress code) Sunday evening, where I was served a pretty scrumptious meal of pesto-filled ravioli.

After I shared a couple pieces with other folks at the table, I ate about half of what remained, thinking I'd save the remaining pieces for lunch Monday. After all, shouldn't a dinner that good — and that expensive — be partitioned out for as many meals as is humanly possible?

It seemed practical enough. So when a member of the wait-staff stopped by and asked to take my plate, my glance immediately turned to the other dish already in his hand:

It was a dirty plate from a nearby table. I assumed, then, that he meant to take my plate without wrapping up the remains.

"Oh," I said, a little surprised. "I'd like to wrap it up if I could."

"I thought so," he said, further extending his hand for my leftovers.

I paused, scanning the dirty dish cradled in his arm and imagining a million different bugs, germs and protozoans crawling the surface. I'd seen him pick it up at the table immediately to my left: so then I looked at the guy at that table.

He seemed healthy enough — or so I thought at first glance. But, gesh, he was wiping his nose an awful lot. And his skin did look rather ashen.

But I had people at my own table to impress, so rather than say "Actually, could you bring the box to me? I can pack it." — which is what I wanted to do — I lifted my plate to his already-extended hand and watched in horror as he placed my beloved ravioli on top, and yet still slightly askance, of the diseased, sickly man's dirty dish.

I tried telling myself I was being irrational. That this procedure wasn't the least bit unsanitary. And as I thought of all these things, images of Howard Hughes (or rather, Leondaro DiCaprio playing Howard Hughes) flashed through my mind, as if to remind me to stay calm, to not let on that I was uneasy. Or, in short, to not look like the paranoid freak I can sometimes be.

So I decided to play it calm, all the while resolving to intentionally leave my daintily-packaged leftovers on the table as we stood to leave. I was nearly out of the door when I hear "Miss!" over my shoulder, and turn around to see the guy running towards me with my microbe-infested pesto.

I smiled politely; thanked him; and then threw the food in the trash first thing when I returned home.

OK. So maybe I'm a germophobe. And, yeah, I can't help but think of my father, and all those times he reminded me of the children starving in Africa whenever I'd refuse to eat food on my plate.

"I'd send it to them if I could," I'd say earnestly, my eyes barely visible over the table-top, pleading to be dismissed.

But I'm not so sure pesto ravioli could last such a long trans-continental journey. And yet: I also couldn't stomach the idea of eating it.

So I threw it away.

Now what, dear bloggers, would you have done?