Sevilla Later: Binge Edition

The day I returned from my month-long stay in England, my parents, driving me home from the airport, asked what I wanted to do on my first day back in the states. "Go to a diner," said I, a born-and-bred Diner State girl, and the 'rents promptly obliged. Therewith, I proceeded to pig out on mozzarella sticks, potato skins (this was pre-vegetarianism) and other various and nefarious fried foods that are hard to come by abroad.

So, with less than a week left before the move to Spain, I made a list of all the foods I knew I could not get (or wouldn't be as good) overseas and therefore had to eat before my departure. These included, but were not limited to: a bagel, sushi, a slice of pizza, popcorn, cheese fries, pickles, et al. This weekend, I went on a bender, aided in part by the free pizza available with every drink purchase at Crocodile Lounge. The evidence...

First, on Saturday night, the pizza:



Then, the morning after, I ate like I was on vacation.



From left to right: pancakes; cheese fries with gravy on the side (for people who like that sort of thing); onion rings (not pictured); grilled cheese with bacon and tomato; mashed potatoes; roast beef sandwich (I did not partake); BLT (not pictured, also not eaten, though I did snag the pickle); scrambled eggs; and a Diet Coke, which is more syrupy here than the Coke Lite available everywhere else in the world.

It tasted oh-so-good going down and I expectedly felt disgusting the rest of the day, both physically and emotionally. In fact, I feel so full I don't think I'll need to eat anything until I actually arrive in Spain on Saturday.

In a pickle

There’s been a shift in my relationship with Jay and it’s a little disconcerting. (I’m going to get chided for writing about this, but really what fun is blogging if you don’t detail things like your significant other’s bathroom habits? [Don’t worry, that’s not happening here—yet—so keep reading.])

Since our relationship’s inception, I’ve been the healthy eater. I order salad with dressing on the side while he chows on a double cheeseburger with bacon; I blot the grease off my pizza while he laughs at me between strings of melted, cheesy goodness; I coerce him into ordering French fries so I can finish off his leftovers. I’ll never forget the look on his face the first time I ordered my diner staple of a BLT without the B. I could quite clearly see the tears in his eyes as he tried to hold his laughter in.

But lately things have been different. Over Christmas, Jay went to the doctor and discovered that eating cheese steaks for lunch every day will give you high cholesterol. Ever since, he has taken to healthy eating with the fervor of Kristie Alley stumping for Jenny Craig, which now leaves me feeling like a porker every time I want to eat like crap. Witness the following exchange:

Me: Can we please, please break the healthy streak sometime soon and go check this place out? They have fried pickles!!!
Him: I’m down with checking that out sometime. I guess I could really let loose and get the frisee salad or the raw vegetable sandwich…
Me: I’m not feasting on fried pickles while you nibble on frisee. I hear their burgers are good…

Does it get more peer-pressure laden than that? Can’t you sense my desperation? What’s even worse is that it’s not the pressuring him to do something he doesn’t want to do that bothers me—it’s the loss of my healthy eating superiority. It’s not so much about having crappy-eating companionship as it is about bringing him down so I can gain the upper hand again. Boy better watch his back… We’re going to Soho Park for burgers and fried pickles and once he goes to the bar for a drink, I’m switching my order to salad and a water.