Now if you know anything about me, you’ll know that I am decidedly not a foodie. If it’s not prepackaged, I don’t want to eat it. I’m the first to admit I have “food issues” and the second to ask you for an Uncrustable. I probably have scurvy. Thank the Good Lord of Butter I take my (expired) vitamins.

But I’ve occasionally been out to those restaurants that add a zillion ingredients – all with many descriptive terms – to their menu.

And I’ve decided that in lieu of blogging as a career, mayhap I should go into writing descriptions for Foodie Food.

Let’s try this and see how I do.

I’ll start with a diner hamburger.

“The moist, succulent quality of the 100% Angus beef is fried in the fat of dozens of it’s companions, topped by an onion that was left out for three hours aged onion and a single piece of lightly browned romaine lettuce, with the soft, unresisting paper-thin piece of tomato, cut so delightfully thin to save money because OMG Mexico costs a ton to ship vegetables all atop the soft, and yet firm hamburger bun, dotted perfectly with little pops that are at least 90% sesame seeds. Throw on a dollop of perfectly aged premium generic ketchup and you will never look at a burger (or the toilet) the same way.”

Isn’t your mouth WATERING? Mine is. But that may be nausea, not hunger. I can’t tell.

Next, an Old American Favorite, Split Pea Soup:

“As it arrived at the table, I’m struck first by the smell as it approaches. That vaguely earthy smell of mashed up legumes that puts me in mind of spoon feeding a baby. My first baby. He taught me to never try that again, by projectile vomiting the strained peas back as fast as I could get them to his mouth.

I’m reminded of the Exorcist as I suddenly lose my appetite. As it is set before me, I’m lost, staring into the thick, murky mire of the soup. It’s consistency reminds me vaguely of drywall putty, or perhaps of that stuff that people use to polish brass. How does one describe perfection except to say that you know it when you’ve found it?

And this? Was perfectly abominable.

From the earthy taste of the peas, to the dried pieces of cilantro that were used as a “garnish,” this was a hot mess, from back to front.”

Wait.

That wasn’t right. I was supposed to make you WANT it. Not think of The Exorcist.

Guess you’ll have to keep Your Aunt Becky around after all, Pranksters.

Comments = full of the awesome. Like gravy. I can haz an RSS RSS feed .

24 Responses to Aunt Becky as a Foodie

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