the night fried chicken stole my soul.
Despite my quest to lead a healthy lifestyle, there has always been a special place in my heart for some fried goodness. You know what I’m talking about. Chicken fingers. French fries. Funnel cake. Onion rings. Bacon. Bacon grease. Yes, bacon grease. Because there is nothing quite like several eggs fried in a pan that had previously hosted a pound of sizzling, fatty, salty, wonderful strips of bacon.
Nick and I have been known to consume an entire pound of bacon on our own. In one sitting. In five or ten glorious minutes. After a feat of such measure, we typically sit, full and satisfied, bacon grease sinking into our bloodstream, house smelling like a diner on a Sunday morning, happy, content, basking in the sunny feeling that only a pound of crispy bacon can create.
Simply, I love grease and fat and anything cooked in its artery-clogging sweetness. So, last night, when we agreed to go to Stroud’s with my dad and sister and brother-in-law, I was ready to eat. I ordered chicken fingers and cottage fries. I piled on the chicken gravy and salt. I skipped my salad to save room for the fried bits of heaven. But I didn’t skip the giant deep-fried shrimp appetizer. My dad said they import them from Japan, which allows for the exorbitant price of $3.75 each. Japan, maybe. But regardless, it was bigger than my hand and tougher than shrimp should be, but it was deep fried and delectable and so obviously not organic. Some may have called it shrimp on steroids. I called it heaven.
When dinner came, I started in on the chicken fingers, and then the cottage fries and gravy, but the strangest thing happened. Midway through my first chicken finger, after about 10 cottage fries, my stomach was finished. I felt like a brick had been dropped down my throat and into my gut. I wanted to die. I couldn’t even muster two bites of the famous Stroud’s cinnamon rolls that are great that night but terrible the next day. I was finished. Done. Tired. Gross. Bloated. And I had hardly eaten a thing.
I could make only one conclusion. In my quest for health, I conditioned my body to not accept pan-fried or deep fried taste sensations. My insides simply rejected it. No matter how badly I wanted to put that crispy chicken into my mouth, chew and swallow, I just couldn’t do it.
Walking to the car, I felt defeated. I was ready to conquer some Stroud’s, but instead, I’m afraid it conquered me.
Nick and I have been known to consume an entire pound of bacon on our own. In one sitting. In five or ten glorious minutes. After a feat of such measure, we typically sit, full and satisfied, bacon grease sinking into our bloodstream, house smelling like a diner on a Sunday morning, happy, content, basking in the sunny feeling that only a pound of crispy bacon can create.
Simply, I love grease and fat and anything cooked in its artery-clogging sweetness. So, last night, when we agreed to go to Stroud’s with my dad and sister and brother-in-law, I was ready to eat. I ordered chicken fingers and cottage fries. I piled on the chicken gravy and salt. I skipped my salad to save room for the fried bits of heaven. But I didn’t skip the giant deep-fried shrimp appetizer. My dad said they import them from Japan, which allows for the exorbitant price of $3.75 each. Japan, maybe. But regardless, it was bigger than my hand and tougher than shrimp should be, but it was deep fried and delectable and so obviously not organic. Some may have called it shrimp on steroids. I called it heaven.
When dinner came, I started in on the chicken fingers, and then the cottage fries and gravy, but the strangest thing happened. Midway through my first chicken finger, after about 10 cottage fries, my stomach was finished. I felt like a brick had been dropped down my throat and into my gut. I wanted to die. I couldn’t even muster two bites of the famous Stroud’s cinnamon rolls that are great that night but terrible the next day. I was finished. Done. Tired. Gross. Bloated. And I had hardly eaten a thing.
I could make only one conclusion. In my quest for health, I conditioned my body to not accept pan-fried or deep fried taste sensations. My insides simply rejected it. No matter how badly I wanted to put that crispy chicken into my mouth, chew and swallow, I just couldn’t do it.
Walking to the car, I felt defeated. I was ready to conquer some Stroud’s, but instead, I’m afraid it conquered me.
Labels: eating., for the love of all things carbs.
posted by Pensive Girl @ 10:03 AM
2 Comments:
At 1:45 PM,
Faith said…
It might've just been an "off" night for you. Don't let this get you down! Try it one more time (you know, in a year or two), and if it happens again, THEN you can conclude that the fried goodness stole your soul.
On the other hand, a POUND of bacon? Between just two little people like yourselves? Jeezy...that's impressive, even to a big girl like me! :)
At 11:41 PM,
Anonymous said…
Looks like you'll be having left-overs on Thursday night, I'll be over at 7.
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