Taco Bell: Fries of Lies

Taco Bell recently added a new menu item that immediately caught my attention—FRENCH FRIES. And not just any French fries—NACHO FRIES! Two of my favorite things, combined(!!): French fries and NACHOS!

Now I can feel some of you judging me right off the bat. Some of you are food culture enthusiasts who pretend you would never eat anywhere besides your locally owned eatery, where the drinks are fancy and food is artisanal, in favor of a fast food chain. But I see y’all during 4^th meal at 12am, shame eating a Crunch Wrap Supreme in your cars because your artisanal dinner could have fit on a postage stamp. I SEE Y’ALL.

Make sure you save room for dessert?

Taco Bell REALLY wants people to try their new menu item. They rolled out a shiny ad campaign during the SuperBowl featuring Josh Duhamel, along with sponsored social media content. They added a layer of kitsch by offering a special stand for you to use while dining in. (Do people still dine in at Taco Bell?)

(Side note: Does the bell look um.. odd here? I think it looks odd. Like something odd happened to the bell that the bell didn’t want. Who did that to that poor bell?!)

But I didn’t need selling on these fries. I was already prepared to be a customer. Look at those fries as they lounge in their stand! They’re seasoned—according to their website—with “Mexican seasoning,” whatever those might be. Cumin? Chili powder? Garlic powder? They come with cheese dip, which, sure, it’s the same cheese that they give you with the chips, but that’s fine—it’s still yummy! Not to mention, they’re only a dollar! And if you're feeling like a big roller, there are any number of toppings you can add to make your nacho fries truly SUPREME! (Har-har!) So yeah, I was on board. These fries look delicious, with their come hither crunchy looks and cheesy sauciness.

So I went through the drive thru, I ordered my entree, drink, and a side of fries with nacho cheese. As soon as I got them, I pulled into my usual spot a random parking place, and prepared to engage in rapturous shame eating. I popped open my little container of cheese—I know what that’s going to be like—I pull out a fry—that’s crispy feeling and it’s golden, must be those Mexican spices!—and I dunk it into the cheese. I put the whole fry in my mouth. And I wait for angels to start singing.

And… nothing. I just taste cheese. I’m confused. So I skip the cheese and I just eat a fry by itself. It’s crispy, but there’s… there’s still nothing. Not even salt. It’s just… it tastes like potato.

They lied to me. They made me think that I was going to have a magical fry experience. I thought I was going to relive my glory days of French fries—when I lived in Salem, Virginia, and there was a Rally’s.

Now Rally’s has magical fries. (Rally’s is also known as Checkers, depending on where you live.) They’re the kind of crispy that leaves crumbs at the bottom of the bag that you fight over with whoever you’re unfortunate enough to be sharing your meal with (I say unfortunate because many a friendship or relationship has dissolved over these crumbs.) The flavor is the perfect balance of zesty, sweetness, salty, and spice with their seasoning that’s been cooked into the whisper of batter that they’re put into before being fries. They actually improve the flavor of ketchup, bringing the flavor of vinegar, forward. Didn’t know ketchup has vinegar in it? Now you do. They are so good that they try to soothe the masses by offering them in the frozen food section at your local grocery store, but they just can’t hold a candle to the original.

Aren’t they beautiful?! Frozen just can’t properly convey the perfection that one experiences when they eat these fresh from the industrial sized fryer. Frozen.. they’re just not the same.

And neither were these French fries from Taco Bell, masquerading as something as delicious as Rally’s fries. I could have sat in the parking lot and shame ate my Cheesy Gordita Crunch, but the heart had just gone out of me. So I put the lid back on my gelatinated, imitation cheese topping, and I drove back to work, where I sadly ate a few more Taco Bell fries, hoping maybe it was just the fries on top. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t.

And yes, I really did just blog about French fries. No, I wasn't paid. I just have a lot of feelings about French fries.

Bonus: The beginning of this video is a segment about a potato who aspires to be a Rally’s fry!!

The Deli Counter: Confessions of a Fat Girl

The story you're about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect the jerks. Today, on Fatnet...

On Sunday I went to the grocery store; I needed some stuff for breakfasts and lunches during the week. My first stop was the deli counter--there was no line, so I wanted to go there first. I ordered some thinly sliced country ham. The idea was I’d get slices of country ham and put them on whole wheat biscuits.

As I was putting in my order, a woman walked up behind me. “Country ham? I didn’t know you could order that from the deli counter!” she said, pleasantly enough. “Oh yeah, I didn’t either for a while! But I love to put it on biscuits for breakfast.” Then there was a pause. The lady behind the counter actually stopped loading the ham into the slicer. The Deli Lady and the Customer Woman exchanged a quick look and the looked back at me. And then this happened:

Please picture Deli Lady like this:

Please picture Customer Woman like this:

Please picture me like this:

Deli Lady: Baby, you don’t eat that every morning do you?

Me: Oh no, I--

Customer Woman: Because that is really unhealthy. There are definitely better things to eat for breakfast.

Me: I know, but it’s a great source of protein, and I--

DL: You don’t have blood pressure problems, do you, hon?

Me: No, I’m lucky in that respect! But I only eat it--

CW: Well that’s not too far away. You’re lucky that you’re young. If you don’t eat healthier you could end up with any number of problems. High blood pressure, heart disease, diabetes, cancer--

Me *in a rush*: That’s why I put them on whole wheat biscuits and have Greek yogurt and fruit with it. It’s a balanced breakfast.
DL: Do you want me to cut you off a slice of turkey? See if you like that better?

Me: Well I am also going to get some of the Boar’s Head cracked pepper turkey for lunches.

CW: There’s so much salt in deli meat. You could definitely have a nice, filling lunch if you did a salad with some grilled chicken. Depending on the dressing, there’s no salt in that.

DL: Oh, I love grill chicken salads! They are so good!

Me *dully*: I’ll have to make that some time soon.

DL and CW exchange a final look that clearly said, ‘We did our best...’ before DL continued slicing up my ham and CW went back to browsing the deli counter.

As I walked away, I could tell they were both watching me. And I felt so awkward. Of course they meant well enough, but really, they had been so rude.

I have been in similar situations before and I have handled myself in such a classy and beautiful way that the people didn’t realize I’d put them in their place until I was already walking away.

But then this was also sort of different. These weren't my peers. These were older women. I remember I had this one client who saw me doing something in what I felt was a highly efficient manner, but she felt differently. “Your attempts at efficiency are nothing but poorly disguised laziness. And if you don’t stop being so lazy, you’re going to die young. You need to make a change in your life. I’m 45 years old and do a lot more physical activity than you do, clearly, and that’s disgraceful.” Obviously she was no longer talking about how I was moving the copy paper. She was older than me, a client, and essentially in a position of power, because one word could have had me fired in an instant. (Long live the at-will hiring in this, our fair Commonwealth! *eyeroll*) But in that situation I needed the job.

In this situation I just needed… ham. I dunno. Ham’s pretty important though, right?

I know what some people going to say. "Jess, why didn't you go to the manager or tell them to get stuffed?!" Well the simple answer is this: In my mind, arguing with them or telling where they could shove their grilled chicken salads didn't seem worth it. They weren't going to change their behavior and it would only leave me looking like that angry fat person who wanted ALL THE HAM. And personally, I'd rather be irritated about it initially and then write a funny blog post about it later. And eat my ham biscuits. (Do you get how delicious these things are???)

Sometimes it seems as though people think I have no idea that I'm fat; that it's going to come as a shock and surprise to me. Sometimes I really want to turn around and be like, "Omg, where did all of this ass come from?!?!"

Seriously folks, I know what a salad is. I don't need your assistance in nutrition, and if I do, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to solicit the advice from the people at the deli counter.

Whatever. I ate my ham biscuits this morning and they were delicious. Those women don’t know what they’re missing. I bet they eat muesli or drink kale for breakfast or something. And that's why ultimately, I pity them.

Why Sharing Food Sucks: Confessions of a Fat Girl

I hate sharing food with people. And it’s not because I’m fat. Actually, no, it is, but not for the reasons you think.

When you share food with people, it’s a community plate. There is, of course, a rule of courtesy that dictates you must eat only your share of the food and no more. The problem when you’re big is that often people will give you side-eye when you’re putting your serving on your appetizer plate or sharing a communal platter, as though you've done something wrong.

A plate of nachos arrives at the table. Now it’s every man for himself where the cheese melted to the plate is concerned, but otherwise everyone courteously digs in, grabbing a couple chips at a time, and shoving them into their mouths in the most dignified way possible. Then at some point, you reach forward to grab another chip--the pile of nachos is getting low and soggy, so it’s best to get some while they're still edible, and a person at the table glances from the plate to you for a split second. But that second is all it takes. Given that one is unlikely to be share a meal, let alone a plate, with someone you strongly dislike, it is likely that the side-eye is completely unintentional. They may not even be aware that they’ve done it. But it comes off as “I am judging you for eating more than I think you should," and "I can't believe you're eating that." Sometimes it’s not even side-eye. Sometimes it’s the dreaded double take.

Maybe you're sharing a bag of popcorn with someone. You're both reaching in for popcorn here and there. Maybe they stop for a minute to do something, maybe get up and go to the bathroom. They come back to eat more, but as they grab the bag from you, they do a double take. They look at the bag that is lighter than they think it should be, they look at you, they look at the bag, and then they look anywhere but back at you. You can see them trying to figure out if maybe they're just being paranoid and then concluding that they aren't. They probably go on to eat from the bag until they've had their fill because God knows if they'll get anymore. But that double take? That look clearly says, “I am noting how much you have taken.” To a fat person, this comes off as, “Holy shit, fatty ate all of the food!” Possibly even worse than the double take is someone noting--outloud--how much someone has consumed.

I remember I got a box of candy one holiday--one of those super fancy boxes of chocolate. A person I know got the same box of candy. I was hanging out at their house and they had their candy out. They offered to share some. I told them I just wanted to try a few nibbles--not much more than that. Being that we’re close, sharing the same piece of candy is perfectly acceptable. Except it turned out it wasn’t okay to take those nibbles. I had probably taken a bite of 4 pieces, maybe 5. And there was the great exclamation, “Oh my God, my candy! You ate so much of it” I felt terrible--”I should have just kept my hands to myself and waited until I got home!” I thought, embarrassed beyond belief. And then someone else joined, teasing me about how if only I was as hungry for the good things as I apparently was for the bad things, like chocolate. And it's just friendly teasing, right? Wrong.

And then I died a little inside.

Then the icing on the cake: The person who gave the candy to me and the other person arrived at the house and was appalled when the person with whose candy I had DEVOURED exclaimed, “She ate a bunch of my candy!” The reaction was an annoyed, “Keep your hands out of her candy. You’ve got your own!”

Shame spiral, party of one.

I was so devastated by the whole experience that 4 months later that box of fancy chocolates is still sitting at the top of a cabinet, uneaten, except for one piece, which I took a bite of, but threw away. Not to be contrary or passive aggressive, but because I didn’t feel happy when I ate it.

My one of my biggest joys in my life is sharing. I love it so much that sometimes I’d rather forego things for myself just so I can share something with another person--it makes me that happy. Except I don’t like to share food, not really. Because I don’t want people I love to give me side-eye or do the double take or actually note aloud what I’ve eaten.

If I do share with someone, it’s a mark of how much I trust them. In general, I still share with people because it’s the best way to try many things on a menu at an economical price. And it’s polite to go with the flow of the group. But to be honest? I spend the entire time counting every bite I take, making sure that I take less than I’m due, that I don’t put too much on my plate at one time, and that I am very, VERY selective about which people and dishes I share.

I know that sounds like a lot of low self esteem with a big helping of egocentrism (SAT word), but any person who’s ever had food issues (whether it’s overeating or undereating) can tell you that it feels like people are sometimes watching what you’re eating and sometimes it’s not your imagination. And the result? Feeling like absolute shit. Like you're someone who's out of control, a selfish individual, consumed by the desire to stuff your face. It's beyond humiliating. So communal plates or small plates? Not my favorite.

Also, I just freaking hate tapas. Give me a damn entree.

My Valentine's Evening Was Better Than Yours

Any grandmothers or easily offended persons ought to go ahead and head over to YouTube and start searching for "pug puppies." It's just better this way because I'm going to upset you otherwise. Also, colorful language alert! If you don't know what that means you're also probably going to be offended by this post.




So yesterday was Valentine's Day.

Being a person who gives no shits about being in a relationship, I continued my tradition of cooking a really delicious meal and drinking copious amounts of wine, sans Valentine. I watched Criminal Minds (because what isn't romantic about a guy cutting off a girl's lips and putting them on his dead mother's corpse?) and I ate lots of chocolate. Feel free to tell me at any time how this picture could have been improved by a romantic companion. It couldn't have. Well…fine, no, no, I know what you're going to say, and yes, I suppose that could have improved things, but that involves all kinds of leg work—cleaning my room, putting on fresh sheets, shaving my legs, buying and cooking two steaks instead of just the one, I'd probably would have had to get a gift of some sort, plus a card that explained my feelings just so, it's just a lot of effort to put into that. Again, filing all of that under reasons why my Valentine's evening was better than those who had a Valentine.


I digress. Sort of, that's generally something I'm not known for.


So I made dinner for myself and it was delicious and terribly unhealthy. Paula Deen would have been so proud of me.

I made my "Dirty Girl Steak," along with a baked sweet potato, accompanied by lots of Flip Flop's Cabernet Sauvignon.

The steak was so delicious I had to brag to the world of social media, and in doing so, I caught the attention of a few people who wanted the recipe. Being a couple glasses in, (and by glasses I mean blue Solo cups,) I tweeted my recipe in a fashion that pretty much cements my future in the culinary world.



"Filthy Fucking Recipe for my Dirty Girl Steak:


Enough brown sugar until you think you have enough, enough McCormick's Montreal Steak seasoning until it's enough. Rub on steak. Massage steak--it's had a hard day. Rub the tension out of it. Let it rest for an hour. Melt a stick of butter. Dice 3 cloves of garlic. Heat pan to med-low (about 3 out of 9.) Introduce butter and garlic. Let the butter and garlic make friends--let the garlic get golden. Salt and pepper the garlic while it's in f$%king butter. Let the steak make sweet, sweet love to the melted butter and golden garlic for 10 minutes—don't interrupt their time together. DON'T. Flip steak when it's browned about a 1/3 of the way up. Let it f%#king cook for another 5 minutes, spoon butter and garlic over steak. Don't let the garlic burn. Keep it cooking for another 3 or 4min, depending on how you like your steak. Put on plate, pour butter and garlic onto steak, put in mouth."



Clearly my career path is set, and yes, that all went out to the world of social media. And they are all waiting for my cookbook.

 In all seriousness, the steak was probably lightly poached by cooking in that much butter and at that low a temperature. The result was a really nice texture—the meat and the fat practically melted into each other, and if you know my tastes, you know I can't stand fatty meat, but this time I really didn't care, it was that good. The garlic got crisp and the caramel-y crust that the brown sugar and Montreal seasoning created this really amazing, chewy, crunchy feel. The sweet potato was a lovely side with its salt, pepper, butter and brown sugar (seeing a theme here? It's called "tying together the meal." I think Sandra Lee taught me or something…). I must say though, the sweet potato, while tasty, was hardly needed. Not with that steak. The steak was the star. The foodgasm was everything I needed.

I'm sorry Grandma(s) if you've continued to read this. I did warn you though. And maybe I should apologize to my parents. Maybe. They shouldn't be surprised. In any case, here's a picture of a pug puppy in pajamas to make it better.

Sorry.