More Food

Relax, hot dog casserole was not involved. Last night, being the swell guy that I am, I took the family out to dinner. Since I am also a family guy and occasionally have to keep the kids entertained, we went to one of those Mexican-themed chain restaurants. The kind where the only things that are really authentic Mexican are the guys in the back washing dishes and keeping one eye on the emergency exit in case the INS bursts in. Althought the dishes were really clean.

As I'm gnawing my way through a couple of fish tacos that were decidedly made of fish, possibly bait fish true, but fish nonetheless, my kids are pestering my about desert. Being the good Dr. Spock adherent that I am, I say that they can have desert if they finish their dinners. Then I take a second look at their dinners and realize I'm basicaly telling them "Before you have any gooey chocolate covered cake you have to finish your gooey cheese-covered burrito", and think to myself that it would probably be more merciful if I just reached into their chests and ripped their liitle hearts out now.

But I didn't, because we would have been asked to leave before I finished my margarita, and so we got to dessert. In an effort to avoid the onset of juvenile diabetes, I proclaim that we will have one piece of chocolate-cake-grande-mucho- something-or-other, and four spoons. We got four forks, which the waitress apologized for, (apparently the INS had interrupted the silverware cycle), but really, as long as we didn't have to eat with our hands, we were OK with it.

My daughter takes about three giant bites of the whipped cream and decides she's done. My wife takes two TINY bites of cake and pronounces it gross. Which it was not. I get in about three bites and determine that it's just too rich for mere mortals, and I intend to stop.

Notice I said "intend."

My son is doing his best steam shovel impersonation. Giant chunks of cake, chocolate sauce and whipped cream are being carved out of the landscape and deposited into the gaping maw that has replaced his mouth. His eyes have the same wide-eyed look of wonder and glee that I imagine African crocodiles have when a particularly fat and retarded wildebeest stumbles too close to the watering hole. At first this is funny, but I start to become alarmed after about five bites. He's slowing down, but since he's inherited my genes there's just no way any of this cake is going to be allowed to go back to the kichen, (besides, there's no one left to wash the plate), even if massive stomach trauma results. Heroically I pick up my fork and wade back in. Even my wife takes another, albeit small, bite. Another few bites, and the cake is gone. We pay and leave.

On the way home my son asks if we can open the window, never mind that it's 20 degrees out. We do. Then we start asking him if he wants some chocolate cake when we get home. He proclaims his hatred of us and all things chocolate.

He was fine this morning. I on the other hand, am feeling a bit woozy.

Now, here's something I've been meaning to say for a little while. There is a particular blog out there that I visit regularly. I don't link to the writer and they have never commented on here. But I'm pretty sure they read this. Why am I sure, you ask? Because I have noticed that with some regularity I may write about a particular topic and within a couple of days, that same topic is written about on that blog. Oftentimes it may not be the main subject of the article, but just some little aside, sort of like the kind that I make all the time. Because I can't actually write. So here's the thing. And again, it's no one I link to or for that matter anyone I've ever had a comment from, so you're all OK with me. But if I go to this particular site and read about a family trip to a faux Mexican restaurant, I'm beating the hell out of you. Or, since I'm too cheap to pay air fare, just posting your actual name and address here. Where 20 people will see it. Maybe 22.