Fooooooooooooood

My Allegory of Gluttony:

I started my Saturday with a piece of toast and followed that with a Russo's sandwich, which are pretty much God's gift to bread.
I also stopped at Subway on my walk to the train to get a fountain coke.

Once I arrived in Brooklyn, I ate some olives out on the patio, sun on my back, birds at the feeder.

I then decided I had no choice but to make pasta.

Sardines, red onion, garlic, olive oil, red pepper flakes, thyme, lemon and a little parmesan.

If you hate sardines, fear not. They melt and disappear completely into the sauce, leaving only a rich, nutty flavor and zero fishiness.

I then walked over to my sister's, where I ate a lemon popsicle and demanded she make french fries, which I mostly ate myself.

Then we went out for sushi.

And was I full yet? Not quite.

Thankfully, I WAS tired, so after the trek home I fell right into a deep slumber.

Enter Sunday.

Woke up to no rain, which was a pleasant surprise, but I felt like a walking eye-crust.

Everything was too bright and I was having a hard time shaking the haze of my morning dreams.
Until Toddy Coffee made his appearance.

And I usually only drink a very mini mug of him, because he is super strong and will wrestle you right out of your skin if you aren't careful.

But I decided on a full mug, and drank the whole thing with eggs and bacon and sprout salad.

An hour later I was a jittery mess.

I tried my best not to shake and then run screaming out the front window like an over-caffeinated train wreck.

So how about some mixed drinks?

Hours later we followed said drinks with a HUGE, steaming, utterly delicious bowl of slow roasted pork, coconut rice and creamed spinach.

Which we then followed with a trip to The Chocolate Room.

Which was then followed by visions of vomit and buttons popping off my pants.
My pallet had thrown in the towel.

We took a lap around the block, trying to settle my overloaded stomach.

It didn't really work.

I lay awake until well after 1am, listening to things rumble around in my belly and watching, horrified, as the caffeine from the chocolate pummeled around behind my lids, forcing me to open them every minute or so to make sure my eyeballs were still intact.

One moral of the story? Caffeine is not my friend. No matter which way I spin it, he's just not.

The other moral of the story? Salad.

Yes, I think so.

For the next two years.

Salad.