I Made My Bed; Now?

Fatty Sow, Part II.

You thought this post was going to be a continuation of my much celebrated opening weekend review of Fette Sau. Not true! Not true at all. What do girls really like to talk about? BOYS! So, ladies, have I got a story for you. Max and I had such a fight this afternoon!

Lucky for you, readers, we're not geriatric, so it was on Gchat. (NYT Modern Love, here I come). To wit:

Max: I wonder what I'll do for dinner.
me: I can't wait to find out
Max: I'm thinking some pulled pork
me: oh seriously?
from where?
Max: both the alan richman AND calvin trillin books refer to carolina chopped pork
So I've been craving it.
Pies n Thighs
me: that's one of my top meats, babe
on the list of meats I will eat
Max: This sandwich is the way to start.
me: sandwich?
I would just want it plain
or with okra or collard greens
or cornbread
that's how I'd want it
Max: Stop fronting.
me: no joke, babe
I don't think I'd like it in a sandwich as much
Max: Why not?
With cole slaw and a pickle and hot sauce?
Mmmm.
me: sandwiches need to have very tidy things on them
or else I have to take them apart
Max: These are not tidy.
me: to fully enjoy each component
Max: They fall apart in your mouth.
NO
NO
NO
me: yeah exactly
Max: You're making me mad. Stop it.
me: really?
Max: Sort of, yes.
Not mad. Disappointed.

Disappointed?? Shit. In the grand spectrum of how people feel about me, I prefer them to remain consistently clustered around the marker labeled "impressed." That's pretty far away from disappointed. Another confession? I super like looking hot. At a party the other week, I had a conversation with a (hot) young lady about how she gave up her vegetarianism following a freak car accident several years ago. Her boyfriend at the time took advantage of her "sprain of the buttocks" to feed her a hamburger, and she hasn't gone back.

I nodded and smiled while she told me that her recovery was quick, she feels good, WHATEVER, but then:

"And my parents?"
"Yeah?"
"They say I look much, much healthier. You know, parents are always worried, too skinny--" I decided it was time to get to the point.
"Do you think you look better?"
"Definitely."

I believe her! She had shiny hair, a woolly gray cardigan, tight little pants--honestly, that's all I remember. But my mom has been telling me that I look "wan" ever since I started smoking pot in high school. And moms are basically the arbiters of truth, especially when it comes to their offspring's appearances.

File this under the "things that are not true" tab, will you?

Fatty Sow

There's something I've wanted to talk about for awhile. It's how many pickles you can eat in a night before you've eaten an odd number of pickles. Not odd as in eighty-seven, fifty-one, et cetera, but odd as in abnormal. Or perhaps even slightly gross.

I went out to a neat barbeque place the other night, but I'd had a late lunch and am a vegetarian, so instead of ordering nine links of glistening, flesh-pink sausage I decided I wanted pickles.

Fette Sau, by the way, reminded me of a fish joint that my family used to go to in our beach house town before my parents remembered that they weren't obese white Philadelphians like the rest of the patrons, or something. Anyway, I loved the fish place. We could buy creamy macaroni and cheese and baked beans by the pound. By the pound is exactly how Fette Sau (fatty sow? that's what a horrendous husband--I can't even say it) sells their food. Naturally, I asked Max to get a pound of pickles. That was what it said on the menu! A pound.

Max didn't even blink, because he is occasionally tolerant and also, I presume, because he was aware that we were patronizing an overwhelmingly meat heavy establishment. The woman behind the counter took our order, listening obediently as Max named all these meaty dishes that he and everyone else were going to eat, and it wasn't until he got to my dinner that she interrupted.

"Pickles? Do you want a half pound?"

"Oh"--I'd heard her question, and I was silently urging Max to not turn around and relay her question to me, but he did--"hey, Emma, do you just want a half pound of pickles?"

What was I supposed to say?? No, babe, no I'm famished for salt and brine and things that used to be cucumbers so I want a whole pound? There were so many other people around, and none of them were my friend Lee, who can also polish off a jar of half-sours in an afternoon.

"Uh, yeah. Half a pound, sure."

When the pickles arrived, I demanded that no one pay attention to how many there were then and how many there would be by the end of the meal, but later that night as I was gnawing on my chapped, brine-dehydrated bottom lip, I had to ask myself: how many pickles is an odd number of pickles?

But don't worry, I wasn't conflicted for long. One. That's the answer! The oddest number of pickles would be only one.