Have you seen those commercials that lead you through a series of events that lead to one really big bummer? Guy gets an eye patch, roughed up, ends up in a ditch? No?
Well, then, never mind.
So the past several days I’ve had onion rings on my mind. I’m not quite sure why, aside from the fact that they are totally delicious and crunchy and salty and greasy (and I love some salty, crunchy foods as is apparently evident in my ears…no, seriously, I have this therapist who poked around in my left ear and could deduce that. Or she realized she had a 50/50 chance of being right between crunchy, salty and crunchy, sweet and guessed correctly. That could have happened, too.) But unfortunately the craving would hit me when I was already in my sweats, already without makeup, already at that point in my day when leaving the apartment wasn’t an option unless the whole thing was on fire, so I never really got them.
But as luck would have it, Husband and I missed the salesperson we wanted to purchase a bike trainer through and we were FORCED to go to Winger’s for lunch. Seriously, it was our only option. I’m pretty sure. If you’ve never heard of Winger’s, don’t feel too badly – it’s only located in six states, most of which are part of the Intermountain West, so unless you are a scholar who recently applied for a research grant from my university department, you probably don’t know about it. It’s like the Red Robin of chicken wings. Sort of.
And, as any good restaurant might, Winger’s featured onion rings as one of their many delicious appetizers. Husband glanced over the menu and said, “Oh look — you’ll get your onion rings,” and I imagine it was almost as exciting for him as it was for me because this meant he wouldn’t have to listen to me whine about them any longer. Or so he thought — just because I got them today doesn’t mean I won’t want them tomorrow. Actually, scratch that. I probably won’t want them tomorrow because, well,
The Low Point
here’s what happens when you go to a restaurant like Winger’s and share an order of Sticky Fingers (breaded chicken tenders in a sticky, spicy, sweet sauce that has a consistency much like honey) and another order of onion rings, battered and fried and served up with some kind of creamy sauce that falls just short of having a sign over it that says , CALORIES. You’ll eat it all, first off, and you’ll ask for an extra cup of Ranch dressing because for whatever reason, restaurants think a teeny tiny cup is an acceptable size for a dipping sauce. They’re wrong. Eight ounces at least, people. I mean, seriously. But I digress. You’ll eat it all and you’ll ask for extra Ranch and you’ll feel like you’re in some sort of a hurry, even though you are not. You never know when you need to prepare for a timed eating contest. Is all I’m saying.
Then you’ll go to the bicycle store. And you’ll feel a lot like everyone’s staring at you, wondering how it is you even manage to ride a bicycle in the first place — them with their tiny little vegan physiques and you full of fried foods. You’re happier. You’ll buy stuff. You’ll go home.
That’s when you’ll feel like this:
Don’t worry — this isn’t some food poisoning blog post because, ew. This is straight up “I need some Pepto — STAT” indigestion and it will hit with a vengeance.
And, of course, you will be preparing part of your Easter dinner feast so as to avoid any additional work on Easter and when you pull the potatoes out of the oven and place your deviled eggs in an egg shaped platter and mix up the coleslaw (hey — we like coleslaw), you will feel a whole lot like dying. But you can’t die. There’s a feast to be made.