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

Razorback Steak

Dear Food Diary,

Lately I've been sleeping on my stomach with my arms folded up over my head, my face resting on top of my pillow with my interlocked fingers underneath.  Every time I fall asleep in that position, I wake up several hours later to find both arms completely numb and unmovable.  Then it takes several minutes of rocking my body slowly back and forth until I can manuever my still-functioning shoulders into a position from which they can swing my arms back beneath my head where, eventually and after the WORST PAIN EVER, they return to usability.  I'm pretty sure I'm gonna die.

Anyway, tonight Sarah threw a turkey breast in the oven for use in a few meals throughout the rest of the week.  Meanwhile I seared a couple steaks and Sarah heated up some rice pilaf and peas.

When the steak was done, I made a quick pan sauce with the crusty bits and some red wine, then we set about eating our 1957ish suburbany meal.  I washed it down with Summit's fun but mostly-unbalanced Horizon Red Ale, and we waited for our turkey to finish cooking while talking about where we wanted to go for our Thursday night supper out.

Some people (and incorporeal food journals) might think it's a bad sign to talk about a future meal while cooking another after having just finished a third.  I would point my middle finger directly at them, provided it wasn't the dead of night and I still had full use of my hands.