Fear is a Man's Best Friend

Dear Food Diary,

Last night Sarah and I went to Biff's after work because we both really wanted to eat but neither of us really wanted to cook.  Biff's used to be a dive bar that, depending on the night, was either full of half depressing (and mostly drunk) local MGD enthusiasts or mostly depressing (and half drunk) local couples on the hunt for the cheapest possible meal that doesn't come in a bag handed to you through your car window.

I say "used to" because Biff's has recently undergone a major renovation, adding classy five-star amenities like light and ventilation.  They replaced their smoke-stained ceiling tile with shiny new copper panels and put bright rows of track lighting up in place of... well, I'm not even sure what it was before.  I think the waitresses walked around holding their lighters in the air.

Anyway, it was great before: super affordable and really friendly.  Gross, worn down, and boozy... but cheap and approachable.  Like Sandra Lee.

The rows of giant HDTVs and ability to see what you're eating have definitely classed up the joint (and the staff is still really friendly), but it's come at a literal expense: prices have gone up a lot, I think by as much as 40% for some things.

But not on Mondays.  Mondays are home to Biff's insane "$1 hamburger, taco, or pizza slice" deal... and 2-for-1 domestic beers... and half-price appetizers.  It's like what Thanksgiving dinner would be if the Pilgrims had invented deep fryers.

So Sarah and I went to Biff's last night, Food Diary, and we enjoyed several of their promotions.  I'll spare your sensitive eyes the details, though.  Sufficed to say it was all delicious and there was a lot of it.

Today I suffered from some traditional post-gluttony guilt, and I thought back to all the pizza and cookies I ate Friday (and Sunday).  Then I did some quick math and came to the realization that my heart is likely to explode at any minute.

I decided that I'd atone for the questionable food choices I've made recently by eating as healthily as possible today, hopefully reversing all the damage (and fatness) that's accumulated to this point.

For lunch, I had a bunch of vegetables and fruit:

Then tonight I threw together a salad with homemade dressing, garden-grown carrots, and just a few chunks of bacon.  (It was the last of the bacon.  I couldn't just throw it out -- I had to use it out of respect for the pig.)

I made a side of garlic bread for two reasons: one, I was starved for carbohydrates after my ridiculous lunch.  Seriously, how did Triceritops survive for millions of years eating only leafy plants and without the ability to create bread (or pastries)?  I barely made it through the afternoon.

Oh, and two:  A wise owl once told me that garlic is good for the heart, and I've heard that olive oil reduces cellular damage from the kinds of free radicals an unhealthy diet can unleash on a person's body.  So I roughly chopped three huge garlic cloves and dumped that, along with a quarter cup of olive oil, into a giant loaf of bread, then stuck the whole thing in a warm oven while I prepared the salads.  It turned out pretty great.

Now we totally reek (and Sarah's not too happy about it), but I feel great.  My heart is so relieved that it's pumping out a loud wild rhythm as I write this. 

Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum-dum-dum. Dum (pause). Da-dum...

(Irregularly) yours,

Matt

Burning Down the House

Dear Food Diary,

Today Sarah went down to the hinter to see family, leaving me to fend for myself for approximately 30 hours.  I know you don't have a husband, Food Diary, but if your compulsive internet dating ever works out and you land one, keep this grim statistic in mind: 

There's a six-hour safety threshold for leaving people like me (dudes) home alone.  Every two-hour interval after that approximately doubles the likelyhood that we'll break something important, burn down the house, or die.  After 24 hours, we're almost certain to do all three.

So Sarah is taking a calculated risk abandoning me here for as long as she is.  But she's overdue for some mother/sister time (no, they're not going to watch Chinatown), and I could do with a few hours of the faux-bachelor life.  I listened to sports talk radio really loud all morning while I worked, and tonight I spent several hours playing piano.  It's like Animal House over here.

Foodwise, I'm making due with whatever is within reach and doesn't require any elaborate preparation.

Breakfast was a Tony's Crispy Crust cheese pizza.

The secret to enjoying things like this monstrosity and its retarded cousin, Totino's Party Pizza, is to forget that it's supposed to be a pizza.  It's not one.  It's something else, something terrible.  Something oddly delicious and addictive, full of unrecognizable elements that are technically edible but non-nutritive.

Speaking of which, this was lunch:

I know.  But just look at them!

Plus trans fats will kill me much more slowly than burning to death in a fire would.  I already took a chance putting that pizza in the oven earlier -- I'm not going to tempt fate. 

As the hours wear on, I'm being extra careful.  I didn't even open the Oreo bag with a knife.