But I don't particularly mind, because I despise daytime television. It reminds me of being sick, as sick days were the only days I ever watched daytime television. The very words "daytime television" conjure up images of me watching Bob Barker while simultaneously vomiting into a big silver mixing bowl. Mom would try to keep me from slipping into a coma by forcing me to bid on items, like I was one of the contestants. But it's hard to guess the cost of an old-timey popcorn machine while you're turning the living room into a giant Jackson Pollock painting made with bile. Enough? I thought so.
Anyvomit, I'm quite the stranger to daytime TV. But while in the waiting room of the doctor's office today (that was equipped with several flat screens but sadly devoid of draught beer or wings), I was reminded just how out of touch I was with the world of midday television. Which probably explains why I've never come face to face with the hosebeast that calls herself Paula Deen.
Before you grab your torches and pitchforks and start looking for my house (hint: it's the one with a different repair truck in front of it every damned day), let me just say two things:
One: I love comfort food.
Two: I hate anorexia.
Okay? So my butter-soaked, bacon-wrapped, cream-drizzled beef with Paula Deen is not because I believe that thin is pretty or pie is bad. And if you're a religious Paula Deen viewer, let me just say two more things:
One: No offense.
Two: STOP! THIS WOMAN IS TRYING TO KILL YOU!
Seriously. In just fifteen minutes of waiting for the doctor to see me, I witnessed her whip up a version of chocolate bread pudding that would give Ghandi heart failure in under three mouthfuls.
Watching her amble from pot to pot like a grizzly bear in a fat lady costume, I couldn't fathom how the Surgeon General was allowing this type of programming to be broadcast to the masses. Also on the menu was some sort of potato casserole that was straight-up hemmorahging sour cream. She finished it off with a vat of beef stew, in which I think she skipped the vegetables and just added whole suckling pigs for color.
She plated the stew directly on top of the potato stuff, giggling as she drenched the entire meal in stew gravy. "Whoops," she said. "Got a little gravah on mah potatoes!" And next week: "Whoops, I just fell down on the table with my mouth open and accidentally python-style swallowed that Thanksgiving turkey whole."
The worst, though...the worst was that damned bread pudding. She brought it out of the oven and gazed at it like she was Whitney Houston with a ten pound crack rock. Paula then sunk a serving spoon into it and the bread pudding actually quivered and farted. "I just LOVE that gushy sound. Ya hear it?" she squealed with delight. Yes, Paula, I heard it. And then I went out into the lawn, ate some grass, came back and yakked it up on the carpet of the waiting room. You make me want to be ill.
I mean, watch this woman eat a pumpkin bar. Nobody should ever react to food this way, unless it's a Louisiana Meth Souffle.
Sure, she's probably extremely likable. And I bet her cooking tastes amazing, just like I bet it would be fun to steal a car or kick my neighbor's stupid dog--great in the moment but you know it was wrong and feel just awful about it ten minutes later. Honestly, I just can't imagine what regularly eating like that could do to a person.
Important note: That is a man. And that is his thigh.
There is a little glutton inside all of us, and 'tis the season for it to rear its fat, ugly head and smash some serious gravy-riddled food. But to religiously use full sticks of butter in meals? The very thought of it makes me want to have ice cubes and a Cert for dinner.
Speaking of, I hope you all have a great Thanksgiving. I'll try and blog between now and then, but I'm very busy having steamy nights and shopping all my days away (read: staying at the office late because the heat is free and buying brake pads and hot water tanks). Love you all.
Oh, and in the spirit of Paula Deen, I say we all have a turbaconducken this year. It's a chicken wrapped in bacon, stuffed inside of a duck wrapped in bacon, stuffed inside a turkey. Wrapped in bacon. It makes my eyes fart.
