Week 10: The Frog Pond and the Angry Tadpole

Sunday morning you’ve come too soon. While I look forward to our weekly brunch adventure, I can’t help but think that tomorrow is Monday. Monday involves writing a week long RFP and hopping back on the treadmill after a weekend of approximately 15,000 calories. It’s a rough caloric estimate because if I actually count Friday Night’s dinner at Oishi, Saturday Morning’s Hot Dog Execution and Saturday Night’s Cuban Takeout the real numbers would discourage me from going to brunch.

My thoughts of becoming obese are interrupted by our need for coffee which has resulted in a pit stop at McDonalds. We are going to brunch at the Frog Pond which is almost an hour away and sometimes determination and willpower just has to come from a hot trashy cup. While waiting in line we are cut by three people. It boggles my mind. Even if these belligerent McDonalds patrons are “regulars” or hold some type of VIP Big Mac Fan Club Card, I want to know what makes them think they are entitled to cut me. I might not fit your profile, but I come here too you bitches.

Here I go again with my thoughts interrupted by something more interesting- an 8 year old holding up some change—“What can I get with 75 cents mam.”  The cashier responds “Nothing.”  Despite making an unfair assumption that it was probably the son of someone who just cut me, I pulled out my wallet to give him a few dollars. Just in time though, another cashier interrupted the conversation to say “Give that dang boy a cheese-burga.”  Looks like I’ll be savings these two dollars for Flamingo Bingo.

After a long car ride we arrived at the Frog Pond. Not exactly what I was expecting. The Frog Pond came highly recommended and I had wrongfully assumed that it would be a standalone, cool looking joint. It was in a strip mall surrounded by tourist traps and there were lines of people out the door. I’m hungry but I am also starting to look like Morticia. With my pale skin and black hair, a half hour of lying around in the sunny parking lot certainly won’t hurt.

There are several large parties ahead of us and I’m concentrating on one because the hostess is talking down to them. The man put himself on the waiting list for a party of 6 but there are clearly 7. As the hostess condescendingly asks him how many people he’s with, his 5 year old quickly counts and screams SEVEN! You should buy that child whatever she wants in there, she is undoubtedly the only one in your family with potential.

When we were finally seated I took a minute to look around. Frogs. Frogs everywhere. It looked like a big green hoarder’s house. The place was extremely fast and waiters and waitresses were running around table to table. With sweeping, coffee pouring, food flying out of the kitchen, ketchup drop offs, tables being set, rapid ordering, babies screaming, I began to wonder how I or anyone else for that matter was going to enjoy their meal. Not a relaxing place. At one point I had to hide my coffee on the opposite side of the table just so the coffee pouring man would stay away from me (yes, someone’s job is to pour coffee and coffee only). 

Our waiter was an absolute ass and I say that as a fellow ass who has no patience for people. I may have been his icing on the cake following a very frustrating morning, but hey that’s not my problem. Serve and pretend to enjoy it. I asked him what the special was and his response was a very sarcastic “I love people like you.” There was an awkward silence as I waited for him to do his job and then he began reciting the specials. The California Quiche special sounded absolutely amazing but two can play at this game-- I’m gonna disregard everything he just said and stick with my original choice. Hash platter with home fries, toast, fruit and two over-easy eggs.

Ryan ordered the roast beef omelette with home fries as well.  He started ordering a side of biscuits and gravy and our pleasant waiter attempted shutting him down. “Do you know what you just ordered sir?” Tempted to answer for him, I waited. “Your omelette is a 7 or 8 egg omelette.”  Thanks for the warning sweetheart, that was really thoughtful of you… but I’ve watched my boyfriend take down an entire bbq buffet and he’ll eat what he wants. Trust me he can handle your tiny biscuits.

As we waited for food I was parched but there was no way in hell I was asking our waiter for anything else, even water. I tried to pass the time by telling Ryan I have personal experience with frogs: I killed both of mine when I was a child. Well, I didn’t kill them. I left them unattended with the cat. I begin to wonder if Ryan sees that as bad maternal instincts. Ehh, just a few frogs. I resist adding in that I also killed our snake by leaving him in the back yard. He cooked or something. It was so strange, a few hours in the sun and rigor mortis set in. Our food finally came out and our waiter accidentally brought ketchup when we asked for Tabasco. I didn’t even bother correcting him out of fear.

The meals were amazing, Frog Pond has fantastic food. Everything was delicious and the portions were huge. I can’t say as much for the atmosphere. After a long drive I wanted something more. Something relaxing. Mildly unimpressed with our breakfast adventure, we decided we’d go to the beach and digest. Just what St Pete Beach needs to see, Ryan and I digesting. Since we hadn’t planned for the beach we took the tourist route and bought clearance bathing suits in some shitty establishment full of shot glasses and t-shirts that would get you fired from work. All in all the day was fantastic, but I don’t think I’ll see you again Frog Pond. The wait outside was the most relaxing and peaceful part of my experience. Life is too short to pay a pissed off waiter. Back to the dirty diners we go! Their women may be big and ugly but they sure are nice.   

Week 9: The Best Time of the Year

♪It’s just 8 bucks a ticket when you order them online ♪ Not too much to pay for having a great time! ♫ All kinds of music, animals and rides ♪ Wild and crazy foods we know you’ll wanna try! ♫ Only at the fair… THE.FLORIDA.STATE.FAIR ♪

Calling all mullets, camouflage attire, pregnant women in tight white tees and carnies: Ryan and I are going to the fair! The day is off to a rough start. As I get my things together, I see Ryan looking at a Facebook picture that has been uploaded by his friend Andy. I see an elementary school class picture up on the computer screen and Ryan reads his friend Andy’s caption aloud: “Guess which one is mine.” I immediately blurt out “I don’t get it. Andy doesn’t have a child.” Dumbfounded, Ryan looks at me and says “Michelle these aren’t children, they are PBRs.”  CLEARLY my vision is off this morning. What I saw as a classroom of children was actually 6 PBRs lined up on a countertop, and one was wearing a coozie. Beer…Children…Same thing. I’m not quite sure why I was hallucinating at 9AM. It may have to do with the fact that we ran 7 miles with RUN TAMPA yesterday and then donated a pint of blood. I’m still second guessing the logic behind that… Oh wait, now I remember… free tickets to the fair!

On the way to the fair, I am anxious. Down this dirt road lies our largest calorie consumption yet. We have a to-do list that probably needs to be renamed “to-eat.”  We arrive and begin a one mile hike through the fairgrounds to the opposite side of the fair so we can give our extra free ticket to Spencer and Erica. Maybe they are on a budget as well, and feel that it is absolutely necessary for us to walk one mile so they can save 10 bucks. It’s perfectly fine though. I’m in a great mood and friends don’t come cheap, especially new ones. I’m happy to see them, not necessarily because I want to hang out with other people, but because Spencer is dressed like a raging idiot. I cannot wait to be seen with him. A cut-off plaid shirt, shorts and work boots. Erica is brilliant; why didn’t I dress Ryan like this?       

There are 6 of us and coincidentally we all have the same mission: find the deep fried mashed potatoes with gravy dipping sauce. I know that God is black and lives at Lupton’s Fat Man’s BBQ Buffet, but today and for today only he may be hiding at the Florida State Fair in the form of a carnie.  

I have to confess that our entire day revolved around finding those holy mashed potatoes. While on the search, we tried every single other food vendor we could stomach without vomiting: Deep Fried Corn, Chicken Fried Bacon, Fried Pickles, Chocolate Glazed Krispy Kreme Donut Bacon Cheesburger, Hog on a Log, Chocolate Dipped Key Lime Pie on a Stick, Watermelon Honey, Cheddar/Bacon Kettlecorn, Basil Beef Tenderloin and a Philly Cheese Steak with “the works” dumped all over it. To clarify, when I say “WE” I do not mean all 6 of us. I mean Ryan and Michelle. Yes, we stomached all of that and I don’t regret a single bite of it. As mentioned before, the Meatball Chronicles do not reserve seats for those of you who just cringed while reading this or are about to go on some stupid rant about fat content, clogged arteries and calories: Get a life.

Hours and hours went by. We eventually passed everything at the fair two or three times. I even made Ryan give me a dollar so I could go in and see the “World’s Smallest Lady.” There, in a box, sat a tiny lump of lady with a cell phone and a portable fan. She was magnificent. She was a mini meatball in the purest form. I felt extremely awkward looking at a human in a box so I decided to shake her hand and introduce myself. I regret that.

The petting zoo was another favorite stop of mine. I entered with the intention of holding a baby goat. As an animal hater, I had no interest in touching or seeing anything else—but for some reason the tiny goats were on my to-do list. I have taken a temporary liking to goats because of their asshole personalities. In the world of goats, if something isn't worth fighting for, it isn't worth having. Also, mating rituals begin early in life—baby goats as young as 7 days old instinctively mount other goats. This is fantastic, and I find myself thinking that a lot of people in this world would be better off if they just adopted the mentality of a goat.

I was shocked to find myself enjoying the ENTIRE petting zoo. What started as an attempt to con Ryan into thinking I had an affectionate side, actually resulted in me loving a handful of animals. Although, I have further confirmed that I discriminate in the animal world as well. I would not touch or feed the sheep because I did not like its hair, and I wouldn’t go near the ducks because they poop white. Freaks. There was also a “Moo-ternity Ward” where you could watch a mother cow give birth. Between this mother in distress, and the midget in a box, there are some really sick people here at the Florida State Fair.

So the day went on… with Elvis Impersonators, a trip through Cracker Town where Ryan bought some bacon salt, a flute playing Indian performance, a dancing bear and an attempt by Spencer to become John  Casablanca’s next model--- The woman’s response: “HA. MAYBE JOHN DEERE.” Although that response was quite hilarious and witty I found myself thinking who the hell does she think she is? I can see your muffin top from here—and you’re the one working at a state fair you carnie. Model my ass.

The entire day came out of Ryan’s wallet. Our goal of saving for a house was backset due to the 12 or so concession stands we hit up, but it was worth every penny. We never found the deep fried mashed potatoes, so as far as I’m concerned they are waiting in heaven. Ryan didn’t buy me the extremely large confederate flag blanket I wanted but I am fortunate he didn’t. The more I think about it, I would have certainly used it as a comforter and had to repaint my entire bedroom. My favorite food by far, came from the same truck: fried pickles and chicken fried bacon. Extraordinary. While Ryan thoroughly enjoyed the Chocolate Glazed Krispy Kreme Donut Bacon Cheeseburger, I settled after one bite. I’ve never been a huge fan of donuts. I’m not sure that anything I tried was the “BEST I’VE EVER HAD” but it’s not fair to compare to restaurant establishments. Fair food is fair food. It’s like one giant edible science fair that only comes around once or twice a year and I’m glad we got to be a part of it.

Week 8: Everything but the OINK!

This morning after 15 hours of sleep, a metamucil mixture and a weak attempt at conquering the elliptical, we ventured off on our culinary adventure. Ryan has arranged for us to make new friends. The reality of adulthood is that "friends" are slim pickings. Drafting new adult friends is similar to an elementary school kickball draft. You don't want the fat kid, you don't want the nerd, and you don't want the one that sweats too much. You also don't want the one that's too loud and enthusiastic about life. Oh and you also don't want a hugger. A conventional slap on the ass will do.  While I appreciate Ryan’s readiness to seek out buddies, I personally can't grasp the desire to drive 25 miles for a new found "friendship."

Ryan has informed me that the 25 mile adventure is absolutely necessary because his friend Spencer has found the best breakfast in Florida. It's a ridiculous statement to make but Spencer’s credibility intrigues me. He is a chef for the Coast Guard and while he probably has not been to every breakfast joint in Florida, he has to hold high standards for food at the very least.

We arrive at Lenny’s of Clearwater. There's a line out the door and it shares its property with a repulsive motel. The first people we see are a family of 4 headed to the beach (in the rain). The mother is ripping a Marlborough and carrying her beach items in a plastic k-mart bag. The dad is wearing jorts. For some strange reason the atmosphere has me convinced, without eating, that Lenny’s was worth the drive.

We took a seat outside in the "stadium seating"--literally “stadium seating” probably stolen from Brighthouse Field. Spencer arrived with his wife Erica, who immediately shared with me that she had duck-taped an electric toothbrush to her living room ceiling and left it on all day as a revenge mechanism for the noisy neighbors upstairs. Who the hell are these people? They are freakin’ fantastic.

After 20 minutes our names were called and we were seated inside.  I found myself thinking wow I really love Erica in the most non-lesbian way possible. Spencer let us know that one time they went to Arby’s and Erica showed all the customers her hoohaa. Not deliberately: there was something about riding in the car with her pants unbuttoned and then getting out to stretch in front of the Arby’s “dining room” and forgetting her pants weren't on...I dunno, I didn't pay attention to that part---all I took away from the story was that “Erica showed her hoohaa to a bunch of Arby-goers.” Fantastic. So fantastic I decided not to make fun of her when she ordered a bagel for breakfast. A bagel? Really? She may have pre-gamed breakfast with a birthday cake but I pre-gamed it with 2 scoops of orange colon blow and that's not stopping me.

The menu was outrageous; there were so many selections I felt panicky. But there, on the left, shining through as bright as Phil Colin’s true colors: SCRAPPLE! I’ve been waiting my entire life for this. FINALLY, an opportunity to try this disgusting slab of animal scrap that Philadelphians won’t shut up about.

I sacrificed hash so I could try scrapple without breaking the bank, and then I moved on to my meal selection. I wanted the lobster benedict but Ryan beat me to it, so I ordered the crab cakes benedict with a side of home fries, onions and grits. Ryan ordered a side of bacon, a biscuit, and tomatoes- I didn’t know we were on a diet—tomatoes??? 

As we waited for our food, a Balloon Man walked around making some pretty neat prized possessions for the Lenny’s customers. He was only making them for the tables with children. What a sick joke…I really wanted one. “Ryan, we need to have a baby so that we can come back to Lenny’s and get a balloon animal.” Ryan choked on his drink and then started talking to Spencer as if he never heard me. “Babe, I’m serious. I want a balloon animal.”

For some rotund reason, breakfast at Lenny’s begins with a personal basket of pastries and cakes. If you order a meal, you get your very own basket of at least 5 or 6 different kinds of delicious treats and a to-go bag if you can’t stomach them all. Where are we, and why haven’t we been here before--- this is so so so amazing.

When our meals arrived at the table I was so intrigued by the scrapple that I forgot all about my grits and left them behind to get cold. I LOVE SCRAPPLE. I’m so excited about this that I inhale it. For years, I’ve been listening to my Philadelphian friends brag about it and there is nothing I hate more than disliking something audacious that everyone else thinks is amazing. I HATE appearing unadventurous or picky. There’s a strange tiny crunch and I don’t know if it’s a bone, a snout or a pig’s tooth but it is amazing so I don’t let my mind wander there.

Just when I thought I had died and gone to heaven, I bit into my crab cake benedict. Up until today I had claimed that Pink Flamingo of Davis Island had the best crab cake benedict. Not anymore. Step aside world, Lenny’s food is orgasmic. Ryan and I swapped a portion and his lobster benedict was even better than my crab. I seriously don’t know why we didn’t know about this place until today, and I feel like every brunch moving forward is going to be a letdown.

I debate asking Spencer and Erica if we can borrow them, as company, for an entire weekend and bring them camping or something. Somehow I see us all getting along very well and possibly falling in love--- so long as the next bagel Erica orders is full of eggs, sausage and hollandaise. Nah, too soon. I resist suggesting it, I don’t want them thinking we are swingers.  The bacon distracts me and every bite at Lenny’s seems to get better and better and better. The experience is surreal.

I was saddened to leave Lenny’s and even considered renting out one of the disgusting motel rooms just so I could be near it at all times. Until next time Lenny’s, you have set the bar. I can’t wait to visit you again. <3 <3 <3

Week 7: Mortification

The dictionary defines mortification as the feeling of humiliation or shame, as through some injury to one’s pride or self- respect. As we venture off to breakfast today, foggy headed with black feet and the smell of sweat and beer, I wonder how it came to this. At what age does this stop? Exactly 24 hours ago we were celebrating Tampa Bay’s annual Gasparilla festival, and yet 24 hours later my speech is still muddled. Just as children wait around each year for Santa to fall down their chimney, adults in Tampa wait for pirates to invade the city and rape every career-oriented adult of their dignity.

Ryan’s silence worries me- he may be tired but something tells me I really blew it yesterday. In two cars, we arrive at Lupton’s Fat Mans BBQ Buffet--- only to see two of their matchless customers swinging their infant by the arms in the parking lot. I wonder if they are aware that a child’s arms can easily break. However, my vision is in Gasparilla mode and I also wonder if it’s actually a real child or just an uncanny couple swinging their thrift store Cabbage Patch. Regardless, my friend Jen lets me know that she can’t wait to read the Meatball Chronicles, and can already tell I’m documenting shocking thoughts in my head. I can’t let anyone on to me, let’s get in there and focus on the food. Ryan asks for a quarter and I’m hesitant to give it to him in case he’s planning to buy a new girlfriend. Nope, just a newspaper. He’s so old and wise….

Now, we’ve been to Lupton’s before but today we’ve got a group of 8 and no one was in the mood for waiting on others. We will feed ourselves and it will be amazing--- We take the first large table we see and it’s conveniently located right in front of Jesus. Thank you, Jesus is just what I need the day after Gasparilla. I sit there pondering my religion. Ever since my first trip to Lupton’s, I had envisioned God being black. But now here in front of me is a white Jesus. I wonder what the rest of Lupton’s general population thinks about this. I decide not to ask anyone at the table, as Ryan’s friends are “new friends” and I don’t want a religious debate.

We all get our food and as usual the buffet selection is unbelievable. Unfortunately, we are not unbelievable. I would say that for the majority of our group, our hangovers overpowered our desires to eat. Even Ryan managed to play with his food a significant amount of time and build some Eiffel Tower type stack of chicken skin, bbq sauce, biscuits and bacon---only to leave the masterpiece behind. I had loaded my plate up with hash, but it wasn’t good hash. I would say Lupton’s specialty is lunch and by the time I realized this I was too dizzy to go up for seconds.

I didn’t experience the real definition of mortification until the second half of breakfast when we realized no one was eating. For lack of better things to do, the silence was broken and we decided to reminisce on the memories of yesterday. For some, it involved falling off a swing, or taking a picture with a hot asian, or sharing a portable restroom with my younger brother.  For me, it was two crying voicemails which were both shared with the rest of the table. To make matters worse, one voicemail was crying about macaroni and cheese. It was also brought to my attention that I had run my fingers through an old pirate’s straggly yellow beard, and was then fed a bologna sandwich. I hate bologna.  The more I learned, the more I wanted to be decapitated and hung on the wall alongside Lupton’s lovely collection of animal heads.

I hate to say this, but I couldn’t wait for this brunch to be over. Although I was alongside good company, I really just wanted to be horizontal on my couch with a Disney movie. All I could think was what if I spend the rest of my life with Ryan, and with his new friends, are they going to judge me from this weekend on? Does the future hold a wedding where the best man will jokingly announce to all attendees that Ryan has settled down with a pirate hooker who legitimately wears fanny packs?  I finally get a grip--after a quick look around the table, I realize that no one would dare. With the exception of two safe souls, I’ve got crap on everyone.

Until next year, Jose Gaspar you have won again. You ruined my Sunday brunch adventure, and you also ruined the following Monday. It took 72 hours to fully recover from your Machiavellian ways.

PS—I apologize for writing absolutely nothing about food but I honestly can’t recall what I ate. Maybe next time?????