Last night we partook in our last nasty, American meal for the foreseeable future. After 20 minutes of racking our brains and conducting internet research to figure out what the ultimate restaurant may be (we were not prepared to settle), the idea came to Ellen: Annie’s Parlor in Dinkytown! We immediately knew that was the place, threw on our coats, and flew out the door. We had been there a few years ago, and partook in burgers and a butterscotch malt not soon to be forgotten… in fact, we’ve been talking about it ever since. We didn’t even look at the other malt options this time, nor did we consult with each other before ordering one. It was an unspoken pact.
If I may, a quote from Ms. Ellen Roth as we sipped our malt while awaiting the arrival of our burgers:
“You know what would be the grossest thing ever? If I lifted my skirt up and pulled my tights down so only my fupa were showing. I’d be asked to leave. I’m offended. By myself. By my fupa!”
Fupa, as pictured above (this one’s nothing compared to what I’m packin’!). Shall we hit up the Core Fit Express class? I don’t exactly know what Core Fit Express entails, but if it has any sort of fupa-focused exercises, I (and Sir Fups-a-lot) are front row.
PLAZA BURGER = sour cream, fried* onions, chives, and pickles.
Funny, the burger doesn’t look like something that would be healthy for you. I feel cured. I do not want to eat red meat again for a long time (not that a hamburger is normal fare for me), nor do I want to pound ice cream (normal fare). Finishing the meal bordered on painful, but we’ve been raised to be clean plate club girls, so we did our duty. Oh, and there were fries. Crispy, tasty, perfect Annie’s fries. I guess we’re in the clean basket club too. Dear lord, just looking at the picture of it again makes me feel ill all over again. Why do Americans choose feeling ill? My insides were liquefied, and I wanted to die a little in the car ride home.
Tonight I am poring over my new Moosewood Restaurant Cooks for Health cookbook, Michael Pollan’s Food Rules, cleaning out the cupboards, organizing my food, and making a grocery list. Now this feels better!
Amen, sleeping dragon boobs Molly. Let’s all be done with gorging ourselves on grease-soaked patties of meat and crispy potatoes. After wallowing in beefy, milky pain, the Meltdown seemed like paradise compared to putting ourselves through another “last supper”. Sometimes “going all out” makes you want to “go all in” in a totally different direction. In addition to “The Last Supper,” I accidentally on purpose went out for happy hour tonight with the intention of it being “The Final Happy Drink.” Done and done. I wipe my hands/mouth clean of refreshing unfiltered beer and truffle oil kettle corn. Blastards!
Tomorrow is my official weigh in, and coincidentally, it’s my first trip to the Y-dub. So, pray for extra water weight and a bloated belly!
Hearts & Farts