When I was a girl, when we went to the supermarket my mother would come up with an arbitrary number, I think it was around five or six, and say that we could only have cereal that had a lower sugar count per serving than this number. Upon reflection, I suppose it wasn't arbitrary, because it managed to eliminate anything tasty from our breakfast options, including that fence-sitter Honey Nut Cheerios. We were left with a sad array of possibilities: plain Cheerios, plain Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes, and Fiber One. This stopped me from getting the much need morning buzz and was probably the reason I turned to coffee at the tender age of fourteen. The world seems a lot bleaker at seven in the morning without sugar or caffeine, and this was the state of my life when a babysitter suggested to me, around the age of eight, that I could just dump sugar on my cereal and it would taste better. Oh, Mother, if you only knew how those babysitters corrupted us! Anyway, after that, I would spoon at least three or four tablespoons of sugar onto every bowl of cereal that I ate, and by the time my parents actually caved in and started buying decent cereal and snacks I had grown indifferent, realizing that I was master of my own destiny.

2. Cinnamon Toast

Another creative way to eat sugar. Make toast, blob some butter on it, and sprinkle liberally with sugar and cinnamon. Resent children whose mothers bought them Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal.

3. Chocolate Chips

Despite being raised in the house of the child of a health food nut, I am also my father's daughter. Luckily for me and my brother, my father was unwilling to cave to many of my mother's culinary demands. It is because of him that we often had chocolate chips in the house for various baking projects. (I know that she going to jump in here and insist that she was the one who made the chocolate chip cookies, and yes, Mom, I love you for it.) We would raid the chocolate chips in handfuls on a daily basis until they were gone. This was the easiest sugar injection in our lives, and one we had to keep secret from the parents. They at least, to their credit, pretended to not notice our sticky hands and chocolatey faces as we bounced off the walls.

4. Baking Chocolate

Baking chocolate was sort of the child's equivalent of "ghost-busting," where crackheads pick up any bit of dust or gib of dirt off the ground and smoke it "just in case." As I remember it, baking chocolate was unsweetened, but still smelled enough like chocolate that I would attempt it occasionally.

5. Ovaltine

According to the family legends, Ovaltine was the one sweet food my mother was allowed as a child, because her mother had been convinced of the health benefits of all of those vitamins. As such, we were also allowed Ovaltine as children. Malted Ovaltine actually tastes healthy and is not good. Chocolate Ovaltine, though, tastes like real chocolate milk to a child who has been sugar-deprived. If you added twice as much Ovaltine as recommended, it only gets chocolatey-er.

6. Anna and Jeannette's House

Anna and Jeannette were the twins that lived up the road. They had an elderly aunt to watch them every afternoon who was notorious lax with the cupboard monitoring. Additionally, their mother apparently did not have great refusal skills, as she purchased any snack food that her five daughters may have possibly wanted (and had five daughters). When I went to Anna and Jeanette's, I could have as many fruit roll-ups as I could eat, Oreos, gummy candy, ice cream and any number of treats that would inevitably spoil my dinner.

7. Egg Nog

Another mom-allowed after-school snack born of desperation. Milk, egg, sugar, vanilla, nutmeg, give it a stir, some food coloring to make it seem processed and you're laughing. See previous post here.

8. Sugar Cubes

Yes, I'll admit it. I ate sugar cubes. After about three, it would set my teeth on edge and my cavities would start crying for mercy.

9. Old German Christmas Cookies

My father, ever the optimist, would often make Christmas cookies for at least a hundred people, despite the fact that we only knew thirty. This would often leave us with a store of hard, German cookies for months after Christmas. They were generally hidden behind the vinegar, because he didn't want my mother pointing out that he had made too many, just like she had told him he was going to. Luckily for him, I would raid these every so often. They were hard as rocks; you'd have to suck on them for a while before even a little bit would begin to crumble. These cookies were a great way to kill time and get a sugar fix.

10. Baking

In the end, I had to learn how to bake. God was not going to bring the cake to me, so I had to learn to make the cake. I think I started baking at around age ten or eleven, in the desperate grip of post-school sugar withdrawal. I started with the Joy of Cooking One Egg Cake which has only eight ingredients and can be made in under forty minutes. I've never looked back.

I wrote to my mother to get confirmation of the recipe and got this in response:

"Are you accidentally writing to the wrong person?"

And then when I insisted that I remembered said eggnog very clearly, I got this:

"Maybe you're remembering your birth mother."

And finally, the concession:

"I'm willing to believe I made egg nog, though, because I felt it was my maternal duty to pump you kids full of protein and dairy, and back then raw eggs weren't regarded as a health risk. And I've always loved food coloring."

You are given feedback forms everywhere you go, but it's actually in restaurants that they really do the hard sell. At my lunch yesterday, I didn't have a lot of time, so when they handed me the feedback survey, I just smiled vaguely. "Please, ma'am," the waiter said, shaking his head in a "we both know that it is necessary for you to fill out this form before you leave" sort of way. Once I paid, he refused to bring me my change until he saw me writing, which was a persuasive tactic.

So I filled out the form. Food, excellent. Service, excellent. Ambiance, good. I've heard that if you are too enthusiastic and mark everything excellent, you can have your feedback form returned to you and can be told that your feedback wasn't honest enough. It's a fine line, though. If you are too honest, the manager may come out and argue with you about the validity of your opinion. That dish, he might say, does not in the slightest resemble regurgitated mutton in either appearance or taste, in response to my comment "I prefer to be the first person to chew my lamb."

After I finally filled out the form in the hopes of getting my change, the waiter who had disappeared with it quickly returned and requested my "details." This is the information that most of the feedback forms request, in addition to your opinions: your full name, address, company that you work for, email address, mobile phone number, home phone number, work phone number, spouse's name, your birthday, your spouse's birthday and the date of your anniversary.

I had already learned the hard way, after a few too many Kingfishers, that giving the restaurant my email address results in a stilted and formally worded email thanking me for my patronage and hoping that I might consider having them cater any potential nuptials that I might be engaging in at any time in the future. My feedback, they tell me, "of great importance to us for improving our standards to serve you better." They wish me "warm culinary regards" before signing off.

"I don't want to leave my details," I explain.

"Please, ma'am." It's that same tone, the "we both know you must do this" tone. "You must at least give your name," he says, "my manager will be requiring this at the minimum."

I give my name, and thank the stars that I hadn't been on one of my feedback binges. At first, I found the forms supremely annoying, until I realized that this may be the first time in the history of the universe that anyone has actually showed any interest in my opinion on anything. Since then, I've been going to town on the feedback forms. At the outdoor market: did I feel that the ticket taker was courteous or not courteous? I put a check mark in the middle, and write "I would have appreciated a larger smile." I draw a smiley face as an example. How did I like the food? "I did not eat food here today, but your reputation for delicious snacks is well known." The landscaping? "Exquisite."

At the spa, they ask for your feedback. At the hotel checkout they ask for your feedback. At department stores they ask for your feedback. And although there are opportunities to make your feelings known in other countries, never are they quite so intense and enthusiastic about it. At the airport, there are kiosks that ask for your opinions. Even more surprisingly, I see people actually using them, typing in one character at a time on the touch screens as they wait for their 3am flights (which India has a lot of) eager to make their opinions heard.

Have I ever posted some of the ways the Irish describe smells? My two favorites: whack and bang. I think I've mastered these terms enough to attempt to use them here. "Some bang of bootrot off that durian fruit cart, eh?" or "The whack of foot we got when walking past the durian cart nearly bowled me over, and I had to take a long drink out of my tea in a plastic bag to right myself."

It's my understanding that one can also use bang to as a "reminds me of" sort of expression. So you could say, when talking about Marilyn Manson, "sort of get a bang of Kev's best friend on the Wonder Years from yer man, there, eh?" Whack seems to be more literal--this is what that smells like, or that specific thing is emitting an odor, but bang can be used more creatively under the guise of describing a smell. "I'm getting a bang of sugarplum fairy off yer wan," for example.

Anyway, this city is one giant bang of durian. I've been wandering the streets like any one of the dozens of feral dogs I've seen searching for sustenance. "Same," I say, pointing to the styrofoam tray of dumplings the man in line in front of me has just ordered. "Same," the cart stand dumpling woman repeats back to me, pointing after the man who has paid 16 baht and is now wandering away, spearing dumplings with a skewer as he goes. I get the same dumplings, but when I hand over my 20 baht note, I'm greeted with a head shake. 32 baht. Not same. I got the round eye discount. On principle, I find this offensive but for 16 baht, or €0.32, I just don't have the heart to complain.

I've only eaten one meal indoors--the complimentary breakfast at my five star hotel--and it was the one time that my iron stomach threatened to somersault. I'm not usually the sort of girl that can be phased by 100 year egg congee, watermelon, sushi and pork floating in grease soup at 8 am. I sternly reminded myself of who I am, and hit the streets for some more satay, fish balls, noodles, dumplings, sausages and nary a vegetable to be seen.

In Tokyo, everything was so expensive that it sort of forced me to keep myself in check. Street food isn't as popular there--more often than not the fast food is served out of actual establishments that are so small that only a few people can be in them at any one time.

There's a street that caters to businessmen on their way home from work who eat giant bowls of ramen standing up. It's next to the train station, and is called "piss alley" (check out these awesome pics), because the businessmen tend to get drunk and redfaced and urinate on a nearby wall before stumbling onto their trains.

We went there one night and had tiny (by Irish standards) beers and skewers of chicken, cooked on a grill right in front of us. Our host, Shinya, excitedly whispered to us that the proprietor of the place was Japanese mafia. The skewers of chicken were pretty intense--one was just chicken hearts. Another was just liver. When the skewer was presented to us that was just chicken cartilage, I declared that my mother would love the place. The next one was just chicken skin, and I declared that my father would love the place. If the beers were just a tad bit larger or came in a hat with funnels and straws, my entire family could have spent the rest of their lives there.

I was reminded of the Tokyo street scene tonight when I ventured out of my scandalously nice hotel and onto the streets of Bangkok. This is a city that takes their street food seriously. This is a city that I could reach a triple digit BMI in. They just park their carts anywhere and everywhere and start cooking. After wandering the streets, alone, jetlagged and sweaty, I finally worked up the nerve to stop at one of the bustling stalls filled with unidentifiable meats. I pointed vaguely at something and was served a plate of pork and chili and basil over rice. For 25 baht. Yes, friends, I just had dinner for €0.50.

I sat there and watched them cook for a while. My mother used to dream about setting up a roach coach. I think she worked it out of her system by cooking on a regular basis for the local homeless shelter, but after seeing the setup they have here (check these pics), I could almost imagine myself dumping my so-called career, investing in a few plastic tables and chairs and a large number of wooden skewers and getting down to business.

Ingredients:
1/2 cup milk
2 Tbsp melted butter
1 egg
1 cup all purpose four
2 tsp baking powder
2 Tbsp sugar
1/2 tsp salt

Directions:
Put first three ingredients in mixing bowl and beat lightly. Sift together remaining ingredients. Add to the milk mixture all at once. Stir just enough to dampen the flour. Add more milk, if necessary, to make the batter as thick as heavy cream. Makes 6-8.

To cook: Test the griddle or frying pan for correct heat by sprinkling a few drops of water over it. They will "dance" when it is right. Heat the griddle or frying pan over moderate heat. Grease lightly with butter. Use a 1/4 cup measure to dip the batter onto the griddle or pan. Cook until the cakes are full of bubbles and the undersurface is nicely browned. Lift with a pancake turner or spatula and brown the other side. Serve immediately with plenty of butter and warm maple syrup.

No Tuesday Left Behind: A Holiday for Pancakes

Does this mean that the Pancake Race that my American public school used to hold every year was actually some sort of religious thing? I haven't managed to make it to work yet today, but I wonder if everyone is going to be covered in ashes today.

Then today I get to work, and they have pancakes in the canteen being made fresh right there on the spot for us. And there was fresh fruit. I haven't had decent fruit in nearly a year, but today I had at least a full cup of blueberries. (The other day I almost bought some raspberries, but at $9 for under a cup, I just couldn't do it.) It was amazing. Apparently this is somehow related to Lent and Jesus and suffering, but the only suffering I could see is the result of these crazy people only eating pancakes one day a year.

Living in a Catholic country is a strange thing. One day I saw a man ride his bike past a the church near my house and do the sign of the cross while still on the bicycle. Look Ma, no hands! He's probably got a stack of pancakes today.

So same day I decide to post about my momentous decision to make kimchi, I find that that bastion of well-written news, the SF Chronicle, has beaten me to the punch and written an article about the stuff.

Cooking in Common: Korea's kimchi addiction catches on in the West

Also, in a bid to avoid too much active employment, I spend the day watching Korean cooking videos on YouTube. Through this endevor, I found my new favorite website, ever.

Cooking Korean Food with Maangchi

Eating in Ireland: Hearty traditions and contemporary innovations

1/2 large Chinese or Napa cabbage
1/4 cup + 1 tablespoon salt
1/2 cup Korean chili powder
2 tablespoons crushed garlic
1 teaspoon crushed ginger
2 tablespoons sugar
1 bunch green onions, sliced thin

Dissolve the 1/4 cup salt in water (in a bowl). Throw in the cabbage and let sit overnight. The next day, squeeze the cabbage and get the water out. Slice into kimchi sized pieces. In mixing bowl add salt (don't overdo it kids), pepper, pepper powder, garlic and ginger. Stir it around. Add the green onions and pack it all into a jar of some kind. Leave it at room temperature for a day, then refrigerate.

More about kimchi and pics and stuff here.

I used:
1 t sesame oil
1/2 onion
2 cloves garlic
1/2 zuchinni
1/3 Chinese cabbage
1/2 cup thinly sliced daikon (radish)
2 green onions
1 cup diced tofu
2-3 T doenjang (fermented soybean paste)
1 T gochujang (red chili paste)
1 t red pepper powder
1 t dashida (Korean beef stock) for that nice msg flav
1 t soy sauce, because despite said msg, I still wanted more salt

I cooked the onions and garlic and then threw the rest into the pot with about 4-5 cups of water. Walked away for about 20 minutes and when I came back, dinner was ready. Serve with rice. Because I'm a beast and am constantly concerned that I don't consume enough calories, I like to throw a raw egg into many of my Korean soups and mix it around in the final minute of cooking. Completely unnecessary.

Here's another recipe from my favorite Korean cooking site for this type of soup: dubu-doenjangjjigae

In a 48 time period, I'm getting to vist 4 more airports. My favorite so far is Dallas and my least favorite is Jackson. Jackson doesn't have wireless, which is why I am writing this instead of working. There's a Business Center at one end of the terminal; I went to it hopefully, praying for an internet connection. Instead I was confronted with two desks, on top of which sat two cream-colored rotary phones. The only business I could think to conduct was low-level drug deals, so I decided instead to go sulk on a very roomy seat. My first flight is now delayed 2 hours, meaning I will again be traveling for a minimum of 12 hours. I did the same thing yesterday.

My only consolation in Mississippi has been the food. (Clearly, based on the size of my ass, this is my consolation for most things.) I've had fried chicken drenched in a honey glaze, fried green tomatoes with crawfish, blackened green beans, red skin mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy, crawfish eggrolls and a bananas foster bread pudding. My bag is filled with praline pecans, of both the standard and whiskey drenched variety. My lunch today was with a few locals that I was meeting for work-related reasons. As our food was arriving, one asked, "Do you mind if I bless our food?" I was struck dumb, and one of my co-workers quickly replied "we don't mind at all." I was forced to bow my head and give thanks for my lunch. Luckily, it was a lunch to be thankful for, as it consisted of a blue plate special with chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, butter beans and cornbread. Blessing things is kind of what Mississippi is like.

This was the Bible Belt. Churches dotted the landscape: Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian. Along the side of the road people dressed in loudly striped pants and wearing shirts that proclaimed "CONVICT" picked up bits of garbage. For some reason, it's only in very religious locals that chain gangs seem like a good idea. Large signs proclaiming statements about 'The Lord' hung proudly in places of business and quickly began to make me uncomfortable.

One of my co-workers who was with me said "half-Jew? You've got it easy. At least you aren't brown." I realized he had a point as I watched him get searched at the security checkpoint at each leg of our trip.

When they finally told us that our flight out of Jackson to Dallas might be cancelled, we scrambled for flights out of Mississippi. We ran to the ticket counter, trying to beat the rush of people that were sure to follow once they heard the news. We asked to go anywhere--any major city that might allow us to get back to California. The only response we got was "Lafayette? Want to go to Lafayette?" We finally realized we weren't going anywhere unless through Dallas and worried that we'd have to spend another night there.

As we sat dejectedly at the (one) airport bar, I remembered the source of entertainment and and fried delicacies that I had seen at each major intersection in Mississippi. Finally, as my co-worker tapped furiously on his Blackberry and finished another Jack Daniels and Coke, I suggested "let's just call it a wash and go to Hooter's." And so closed my first trip to the Deep South.

Airports are funny places--the normal rules that apply to one's life seem to be discarded the moment one enters the airport. 10 days ago, I found myself eating tempura udon at 8 am at SFO. I wasn't the only one, though. I was surrounded by seemingly normal looking people eating triple-decker burgers and refrigerated sushi platters at a time that most of us would be warily eyeing a coffee. A full meal before a flight, no matter what the length, seems perfectly justified. At any other time fast food tempura udon would not be acceptable, but in the airport, it's breakfast.

I've been spending a lot of time in airports lately. I know which ones I hate (Charles De Galle makes me want to tear my eyes out, Heathrow's 2 mile walks between terminals, shopping mall and depressing food choices have added it to the list) and which I like, (Zurich has got to have the cleanest airport I've ever seem in my life, and both Munich and Hamburg were so orderly! so effecient!).

I was looking through my passport today while filling out another customs form, and started to finally realize that I'm getting the life I had wanted for so long. In my early twenties, my inability to travel had me sobbing in fetal position more times than I could count. I resented my parents for getting to travel and live abroad without having to actually work to get there. I resented them for their refusal to give me the same opportunities that were handed to them on a silver platter. I'm not going to lie, I still resent the hell out of them for this. But I'm really freaking proud of myself for creating these opportunities for myself, without anyone's help. In the last two-and-a-half years, I've gotten 27 stamps in my passport.

In the last year or so, I've been to Spain, Italy, Mexico, Ireland, Scotland, Germany, Turkey and the Czech Republic. And save for the trip to Rome that nearly destroyed my life and psyche, I did all of it on my own. I got to live in Ireland for nearly four months with an expense account, and my teeth are like gleaming Chickets lodged in my gums. I've been granted a work permit to the UK, and I have one for Ireland pending. If all goes well, I hope to move to Dublin permanently in March.

The Polack and I have titled, and I am now officially be introduced as "the girlfriend." This is terrifying, but at the same time I feel optimistic (the self-help books must be working!). At least, it gives me hope that I can successfully date men that are freaking hot even if this one doesn't work out. My last run-in with a real hottie was approximately six years ago--a male model who shouted "I'm married" during an intimate moment that quickly became a me-running-out-the-door moment.

I was at a party with the Polack on Friday night and two separate girls pulled me aside to tell me how hot he is, how lucky I am. One of them used the term 'gorgeous' which in Irish-speak can mean either incredibly attractive or just generally wonderful. Another also tried to physically molest him in my presence, which I was less thrilled about. The whole thing is just so weird, still. I'm so happy about it, about him, but that's usually how I feel just before some emotionally manipulative egomaniac stomps on my heart. So I'm trying to relax and think about all of the horrible things that may happen to me in the future as little as possible.

As part of my attempt to chill out, I'm currently flying from Dublin to New York where I will spend a week (and my birthday!) before going back to California. I plan to engage in any number of decadent activities, most of them food-related and all bound to be incredibly gratifying.

The second day of my trip, I went on a walking food and wine tour of Madrid. (WalksOfSpain.com) We went to an a historical Madrid tavern, a traditional Madrid restaurant where we had Paella and meat that we cooked ourselves on a large, hot brick, andwine bar where I had the best jamon of my life. As a fan of jamon, this is no small statement. On a side note, do you remember The Heat of the Meat, when I smuggled ham out of Spain on my last trip?

Anyway, the tour was amazing as it focused primarily on eating and drinking rather than walking. I'll always choose the former over the latter given the opportunity. It was a beautiful kickoff to a trip that consisted of very little other than eating and drinking. Near the end of our trip, we went out with the tour guide, Andres, who is now my best friend. He took us to 6 or 7 tapas joints and peer pressured us into eating things Americans usually spit out into their napkins. He even introduced us to his friend, Dr. Love.

Things I ate in Spain:

The next night was worse, but due to confidentiality, I'm not able to repeat most of it. What happens in Miami stays in Miami, after all. Attendance at Gloria Estefan's club happened, partying in South Beach happened, dancing happened, and my targeting of the Latino market culminated on the dance floor when I met a cute Argentinian who works for my company's largest competitor. A hopeless case, of course--star crossed lovers and all of that. However, I'm starting to consider that I may be limiting myself with the 'Flags of Europe.' There are many other continents that I could potentially explore, it seems.

Miami is a strange place. Everything is really expensive, but in an underhanded, annoying sort of way. New York is expensive. London is expensive. They are upfront about their expensiveness. Don't bother, they suggest. Miami fools you though--the $14 drink seems do-able, until you realize there's a mandatory $2 gratuity charge tacked on to it. Everything has mandatory gratuity charges of 18%. Since I'm a pretty standard 20% tipper, I could actually save money on this city, except that they are banking on the probability that you won't noticed the gratuity charge, and tip on top of it. Which of course I've done at least half the time. The bagel I ordered via room service (a Jew to the very last) totaled nearly $30 when the delivery charge and gratuity fee were added. I could give a shit as I'm expensing it anyway, but I don't like the sneakiness of it all. Just say that the fucking bagel costs $30--I feel like less of a chump that way.

Tonight we had 'authentic' Cuban food for dinner; it was wonderful. While we were eating, a flash rainstorm poured down into the 90 degree heat, and I tried to imagine living here. I can't, of course, but I do like the tendency of men here to wear white fedoras.

Her hair trembled as Straight Up Now Tell Me Paula gave her a apologetic 'no,' followed by the same from Randy. Simon finally raised the ante a bit and told her that the reason that she was being rejected was not because of her voice, but because of looks. Her hair stood on end defiantly and she declared, "We aren't all Barbies, you know."

This was an enlightening comment, of course. Living in California, where people are more likely to waddle than walk, I had never noticed that everyone was not formed like a Barbie, previous to the fat woman on American Idol telling me so. LL Cool J (that would be Ladies Love Cool James to those of you not in the know), the guest judge for the night, proclaimed that he "liked that Barbie comment," and then when he was ignored by everyone in the room, who must have recognized the mundanity of such a comment, he stood up to say it again. He then hugged the salad dodger, and declared again how much he liked "the Barbie comment."

Saying something like, "We can't all be Barbie" is akin to saying, "Work hard, play hard." It's something that you read on a t-shirt at the mall, and are using as justification for your lifestyle. I'm sure there are a number of witticisms that I could impress LL Cool J with, given the chance. Wait till I tell him "I go from 0 to bitch in 6 seconds," I'm sure that will make him realize that "mean people suck," and perhaps earn me an earnest hug as well.

My defining experience with people of size occurred the summer before last, when I decided that the only way to move past my last so-called relationship was to develop another more interesting obsession. Having already exhausted gore photography, off-the-shoulder tops and not being willing to start on porn at such a young age, I decided that food was the only fixation worthy of my time and I headed to Weight Watchers.

Weight Watchers was a lesson in self-esteem--from the minute I walked in the door I was constantly complimented on how incredibly thin and good looking I was. When I managed to ignore the fact that these morsels of admiration were coming from men and women who had pus-riddled sores from their thighs constantly rubbing together, it actually kind of made me feel good.

I set my goal weight to be the same as the weight listed on my license--I figured it would bode well if the next time I got pulled over I didn't start out the encounter with a fib, which inevitably leads to compounded lying and eventual arrest. These six pounds wouldn't be easy, I realized; as anyone who has seen me hula-hooping can attest to, I have very little control over my own body.

I cut my caloric intake by seventy-five percent, and learned to survive on leaves of lettuce and the dew that I licked off my windshield in the mornings, making sure to do complex mathematical equations to translate each morsel into "points." I took to haunting the gym at my school, where I, adorned in copious amounts of lilac eyeshadow, pranced past the numerous lesbians lifting weights and grunting in front of the mirror to get to the StairMaster, where I would leaf through Cosmo articles on how to achieve better orgasms while being glared at by the disdainful women-lovers. I also starting to lurk around the Weight Watchers online message boards, to get tips on how to make my carrot sticks taste like cream cheese and so forth.

The Weight Watchers message boards, are, as you may imagine, a lesson in low-class idiosyncrasies. Many recipes for solid food include Diet Coke as an ingredient, and 'It's as good as a Twinkie!" is a common kudos. One of the regulars made a web site dedicated to translating all carnival food into "points" thus allowing her brethren to save up for a corn dog and funnel cake without fear of going over their weekly point-load.

One of the common attention getting devices on the boards was for any of the legion of newly-committed three hundred pound plus women to complain that although it was bedtime, she was absolutely unable to finish the amount of points allotted to her for that day. These posts would rack up a dozen responses in a matter of minutes, each one asserting that under no circumstances should the woman allow herself to fall asleep unless she managed to stuff a few more calories into her gaping maw. "You have to follow the system for it to work," they would assert, "it works if you work it!"

The regulars also liked to detail their recent sexual activity, and speculate how many "points" they had worked off. Frankly, judging from the height and weight statistics they so proudly posted (which more closely resembled the demon spawn of a circus midget and an opera singer than any human being I had previously encountered), I wasn't sure if allowing their husbands to treat their belly like a trampoline while gnawing on a pastrami sandwich George Costanza style, would count as exercising anyway. But, who am I to judge?

It took me more than six weeks to lose five pounds, probably because of my undying affection for soy sauce and other sodium-enriched delicacies, as my diet commander told me consolingly. I took to wearing less and less clothing to each meeting, in the hopes that eventually, if I showed up in nothing but pasties, the scale would display my goal weight and I could leave this depressing nightmare of a hobby behind.

Eventually, with a fair amount of well-earned shame, I was brought to the front of the meeting and awarded a bookmark and keychain for reaching my goal. I tugged at my micro-miniskirt and looked out at the sea of envious, moon-pied faces and realized that perhaps, with enough stimulants and diuretics, we all could be Barbie.

A meat stand in Spain.

So here I am, updating again. God, I'm good. Anyway, I still haven't posted much about my trip, so I am going to start with Barcelona. In Barcelona, there is a huge outdoor marketplace with hundreds of stands, teaming with people. A substantial number of these stands sell nothing but fish and meat, and the flies in the neighborhood are acutely aware of this fact.

I was feeling a little low by the end of my trip, when I was in Barcelona. I had already been away from home for two weeks, and as anyone who has tried to wrestle me out of my apartment for more than 20 minutes knows, this was quite a feat for me. The fact that it was about 6934 degrees didn't help much either.

So I did the only someone in my position would reasonably do, I bought copious amounts of meat.

Apparently the Spainards are really into ham. The guidebooks warned vegetarians that their requests for no meat in their meal would not rule out pork because, "That's not meat, it's ham." Ham in Spain is a separate food group.

So I started out by purchasing some of the ham of the black-footed pig. Then I set my sights upon some sort of other unidentified meat, which although unknown was still appealing in its own way. Unfortunately, I don't speak a word of Spanish except the ones I learned on the bus in middle school which consisted primarily of, "chinga tu madre," "puta," and "pindejo." I just pointed and waved Euros around like the maniacal American that I am until my hands were filled with rich, succulent, cured meats.

Cat, my vegetarian travelling companion for that leg of the trip had been uncharacteristically quiet during my meat frenzy. Finally she looked at me and said, "Lina, you know it's illegal to bring meat back into the States, right?"

My jaw dropped. Meat fell from my hands like rain. The ramifications of foreign meat's legality during the customs process hadn't even occurred to me. But it was too late to turn back now. I had bought the meat, and goddammit I was going to bring it home.

A midget buying meat in Barcelona.

After considering my options for a while, I decided to buy some salt cod to round off the equation and then dragged Cat through the city in search of Ziploc bags to keep my meat as sanitary as possible. For I had decided to give the meat as a gift to my Daddy (biological, not financial) who had the good sense to have a life-threatening emergency the day before I left on my trip. If anything would cure my father, it would be salted Spanish meats.

So I packed the meats in three Ziplocs a piece, and then smashed them into the very back of my now humongous backpack. I was going to have to make it through customs without letting on that I had a crapload of meat in my luggage. Inadvertently, I had become a meat smuggler.

On the plane, they passed out a customs form. I scanned it quickly and my eyes immediately lit upon 11(b).

11. Mark an X in the Yes or No box. Are you bringing with you:
b. meats, animals, or animal/wildlife products?

I looked around nervously, and left it blank. Finally, I turned to the businessman in the seat next to me, and said, "We don't actually have to tell the truth on these things, do we?"
He looked at me and said sarcastically, "I think that's the idea, actually."

My resolve strengthened, I checked "NO," and prepared to disembark.

I picked up my bag at the luggage carousal, and marched into the customs line, as nonchalantly as possible. It was only then that I noticed the officer cruising the line with a beagle who looked like it may have been trained to kill backpacking young people. Logically, I knew that the pooch's job was to catch drug smugglers. But how could a dog resist barking when he smelled delicious Jamon Iberico?

Luckily, my backpack was in the most logical place it could be, on my back, and the dog ignored it in favor of sniffing luggage closer to the ground. When I finally got to the desk I handed the clerk my form (which was filled with lies, of course) and stood there nervously as she tapped away at her computer. Finally, she looked at me and said, "I have one question for you Ma'am." I stood there apprehensively as she examined my paperwork again, and then finally looked up and said, "Well, did you have fun?"

Today's Friday Five.

1. What is your favorite restaurant and why? AGGG! I LOVE FOOD. So I have a whole theory about how the only food I should eat out is should be asian food, because this is the only food I can not cook with any degree of skill. Most other things I eat out I think I could make as well or better as the resturant. So back to the point here, I LOVE SUSHI. Like, it's been my favorite food since I was 4. I LOVE SUSHI. God yes. So some of the Sushi resturants around here are my favorite. There is also this Korean resturant in San Francisco that I love, but I can't remember the name. Sorry about the lack of specifics, kids.
2. What fast food restaurant are you partial to? God, thinking about a McDonald's cheeseburger makes me all gooey inside. But I haven't had one in years. I want one. Now. I don't allow myself to eat stuff like this often, because I eat so much other fatty (but not fast) food.
3. What are your standards and rules for tipping?I tend to get fairly pissed at waitstaff when they are rude to me. Here in NY it happens a lot. I tip 15% or so, but if they aren't total cunts I hit the 20% mark. Which is where it always should be.
4. Do you usually order an appetizer and/or dessert? Nope, too expensive. If my grandpa was taking me out, hell yes I would.
5. What do you usually order to drink at a restaurant? Water.

More updates later.