Week 15: The 1/3 Life Crisis

My friend likes to say “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” but I’m not sure if I agree with her on that. I have forgotten what skinny feels like in the past two years of my life. I no longer know what it feels like to look in the mirror and count ribs. In college, my roommates used to poke fun at me for having the physique of a 12 year old boy, but you know what? I’d take that bone rack body over a curvy one any day. It’s not like we’re in Africa and you need curves to show everyone else how rich you are. I don’t really have a choice anyway… at this point in my life, which I'm currently calling the 1/3 life crisis (having not reached mid-life), I’ve finally learned to accept that I’m just never going to hit puberty. And should I start to care, the world isn’t over, puberty can be purchased. 

So here are my current options for body types: a round 12 year old boy or a scrawny 12 year old boy. Unfortunately I’ve been the round 12 year old boy lately. I know all too well what if feels like to put a crab cake benedict or stuffed shrimp in my mouth. Obviously it’s orgasmic. So…. Does skinny ever really feel so incredible that you eventually forget about food? In college I didn’t think too hard about achieving the Kate Moss’ heroin chic look, it just came naturally. Not because of heroin, but because every day of my life consisted of UT cafeteria salads and Natty LIGHT. For anyone who says beer makes you gain weight, try that for a week and see how you turn out.

Today’s a mixed bag of emotions. I just don’t know what the 1/3 Life period should entail. I look at cute children playing with toys in front of me. I also check out some lady’s hot husband to the left of me. I find myself desperately want to hand my life over to pregnancy and a husband who grills bacon cheeseburgers in the backyard all day and every day because he’s independently wealthy. Yet, I’ve been dieting all week. For what? To reminisce on the glory days? I don’t know. Ryan’s been dieting as well and I can’t figure out what his motivation is. I’ve already told him that I like him better when he’s heavy so less girls like him. But then again, maybe that was too much of my inner crazy for him to handle and he’s getting ready to leave me. Like when a girl gets a boob job and dumps the boyfriend who bought them for her, only to "upgrade" to much hotter men and then hits a brick wall when she realizes she's been way too much of a slut. Just a theory. Nah, he's not doing that.

We’re at The Brunchery in South Tampa and despite some raving reviews, this is our first time. While waiting to be seated I’m internally struggling, trying to make up my mind on whether today is going to be an overindulging “cheat” or yet another day of deprivation…………………………………..CHEAT!  

Eventually we are seated in the back near the kitchen and I’m actually happy about it. I don’t want too many people looking at me today so I sit right up against the wall. My entire body is fried from the beach this past weekend and my thick white tan lines look like extra straps coming out of my white sundress. By the way this is my 48^th hour wearing this sundress. Ryan’s forehead is fried as well and my face is slightly swollen as if I slept overnight in a tanning bed. We look like two awful tourists.  Suddenly it clicks. I know why I need to be skinny. I need to be skinny so that at the very least if someone sees me like this again they can say “Look at that nasty leather face girl with the awesome body.” That’s a hell of an upgrade from “Look at that leather-faced cow.”

From the second we sat down I had been staring at the special: Crab and Cream Cheese Quiche. Well Brunchery, don’t mind if I do! I can tell Ryan is struggling because he’s been cutting carbohydrates out of his diet all week and it’s taking everything in his power to stick with it. He gets a bacon and ham filled omelette with a side of grits but I don’t think he’ll actually be eating them since they are carbs. I go ahead and get the Crab and Cream Cheese Quiche Special and it comes with a variety of sides. I’m shocked when the words “Harvest Grain with Mushroom Soup” come out of my mouth. Who the hell have I become with this self moderation and how long will this last?

Their coffee special was the Brunchery Blend of white chocolate, coconut and caramel. Again, don’t mind if I do. Fantastic. I drink it black like a true man. I’m fortunate that everyone else’s gibberish clouds the air, drowning out the outrageous noises my stomach is making. After a week of digesting spinach leaves, bananas, soup, eggs and fish filets in miniscule portions, it’s almost as if it knows that real food is coming. I’m concerned that these noises combined with my now 3^rd cup of coffee are going to somehow create an alien that I may give birth to at the Brunchery. It’s a sick thought so I keep it to myself and continue to smile and nod my head at Ryan as he tells me wonderful things.

Our meal comes and the portions are pretty small. It’s a blessing in disguise, they’ve made it easy for us. I toss the muffin and decide it’s not for today. If I’m going to cheat it’s going to be with this massive mound of cream cheese in front of me, not a stupid muffin. The quiche is out of this world. It was a small piece so I savored every bit of it. The soup was amazing as well, although for something called “Harvest Grain with Mushroom,” I didn’t see a single mushroom.  My mind may have been playing tricks on me though after such a long week of disappointing meals. Ryan enjoyed and finished his omelette but I felt bad for him. I could tell he was yearning for more. He pushed his grits aside and I stared at them until determining it was a sin to waste. So I started conquering it for him without all the butter. The Brunchery has such great grits that they actually tasted great plain. You don’t find that often.  

The bill was only $22.43. Our cheapest brunch yet AND the small amount of food was great. Apparently starving your body feeds your wallet. To be honest, as we walked out, there was definitely the feeling of emptiness. We’ve eaten appetizers bigger than that entire meal. I’m concerned about what my readers will think, but then realize that down the line when I eventually crack and go on a full blown binge, it will be that much more hilarious and enjoyable. Perhaps next week, if I am going to decrease my food intake again, I’ll just increase my liquid intake. I have a vision and it’s mimosa-based. I haven’t told Ryan yet but next Sunday is going to be legless. Just wait.

Week 14: The Taste of New Jersey

And we’re off. Sunday mornings I can’t get enough of you. Moving forward you will be my only form of weekly palette satisfaction. That’s right; I’m finally putting my fat foot down. Eating out two or three times a week is no longer on the agenda. Sunday, you’re it. I feel like I have a reservation to the Last Supper, except my experience is going to taste a lot better than communion. Taste of Boston, here we come.

I’m ecstatic for the opportunity to take a huge bite out of home. As a Massachusetts native (a Masshole), I begin guessing what their menu is going to look like. If they are legit they will serve stuffed quahogs.  I know better than to order one though. Even in Massachusetts, you’re stupid to order a stuffed quahog from a restaurant, because even the best don’t taste like mom’s. They are a tourist trap and chances are they came off a boat. I bet their mom didn’t wake up at 8am on a Saturday to dig through the muck and sneak 4 bushels into the trunk of her car before the warden made his rounds (with a quahogging license you are only allowed one bushel).

I laugh to myself as childhood memories come flying in and out of my head. As if shoveling heavy snow all winter wasn’t bad enough as a child growing up in Massachusetts, the summers had labor too. Maybe we had a vacation home on the Cape, and maybe to some I was a spoiled little brat, but for our family summertime meant quahogs and quahogs meant labor. When I used to crave stuffed quahogs and there was no meat left in the freezer, we’d jump straight into the inlet first thing Saturday morning. You want them meatball, you dig your fat little heart out. Quahogs live in the muck and contrary to clamming which is done during low tide with plungers, quahog missions occur in deep waters. My family clammed too but I never helped with that because I didn’t acquire a taste for clams until I was a teenager. Heaven forbid I help feed someone else.

Now, like I said, quahogs live in the muck so if you want one, you dig. Diving with a mask and snorkel is not an option because even if they weren’t buried in the muck, the water is too muddy to see anything. A quahogging rake (a wooden pole with a violent looking metal basket on the end) needs to be utilized. When I was a child with a vivid imagination I wrote a story called “The Quahog Killer” but that’s another story in itself. 

Since I was a “small” child I was too short to maneuver a rake. They were taller than I was, and while adults were in waist deep water, us kids were up to our necks. We also weren’t able to wear waders because of the deep water. If the tide came up over our waders we would immediately drown. Looking back on all of this I wonder what my mother wanted more, stuffed quahogs for dinner or living, breathing children. SO anyway, my brother and I had a brilliant system. We really were smart kids. One of us would stand in the water up to our neck, with no shoes. We’d dig around with our toes in the muck and when we came across what felt like a quahog, we’d remain still and allow the other to hold their breath, dive down, and follow the leg to the pot of gold. When you find one quahog you often find many. They live in “beds” with one another.  I know, I know, my brother “following my leg down” sounds like an awful incest documentary, but it worked. Some summers we’d get enough meat to last us through a few winter dinners. 

With this massive preface, you can see how passionate I really am for “tastes of Boston.”  We finally arrive and sit down outside near the water. I analyze the menu like a true Masshole.  Immediately I recognize that this restaurant is not legitimate. These people clearly do not have a “Taste of Boston.” No stuffed quahogs, no raw quahogs with a rinse of beer, no clams casino, no striped bass. They have steamers but the steamers are only “sometimes available” and they are from Maine. Hey Buddy, Boston isn’t near Maine. I could have given you the names of plenty of Massachusetts inlets where you would have found them and at least they would have went along with your restaurant name. The only thing that was remotely legitimate was the fact that their lobster roll came in a hotdog bun. Every New Englander knows that’s the only route to go.

Instead of getting disappointed, I decide that I’m going to order something that doesn’t claim to be a “Taste of Boston” because I know it will just be a letdown. This menu is a joke. Where does one come up with claiming they are a traditional Boston seafood restaurant when their menu offers the “PHILLY cheese steak,”  “red grouper from THE GULF,”  “MARYLAND crab cake,”  “GEORGE’s famous lobster roll” – Who the hell is George? There was no George Kennedy and in a state full of democrats we never would have named something after Bush. And what exactly is this “Shrimp Poor-Boy” – there aren’t any poor people in Massachusetts. 

Whether their clam chowder is good or not, I’m craving it. Here in Tampa I often settle on chowder from a can, so how bad can it be???  I order the chowder, a basket of fried shrimp: half buffalo, half coconut with a side of coleslaw. I also get an order of onion rings. Ryan gets the seafood casserole with haddock, scallops, shrimp and lobster and it comes with plantains and sweet potato fries. He also gets a devil crab on the side.

The chowder and devil crab come out first. My chowder is cold but I’m not one to complain or send an order back. I usually just wait until I get home and ruin their reputation all over the internet. As our waitress walks away I laugh.  She’s wearing Sketchers Shape Ups. You’re a long ways from Kim Kardashian sweet cheeks, especially with that red hair. The family next to us is getting on my nerves; they are trying to give their 5 year old boy some life lesson on how to treat girls. The waitress joins them in convo and shortly after they realize “what a small world it is.” They are all from Polk County. Shocker… I never would have guessed. You only look exactly like the people they interview on Bay News 9 whenever there's a child missing, rapist on the loose or grow house that has just been confiscated.  

The food comes. This is awful. Worst Meatball Chronicle EVER. The onion rings are extremely skinny and flakey. No onion, all batter. Bad batter. I ordered buffalo shrimp and coconut shrimp yet somehow my basket is full of regular fried shrimp—which I decide to eat anyway, but they suck.  The coleslaw is warm- if I wanted warm cabbage I would have ordered corned beef too. The coconut shrimp was tasty but overall this is just a losing establishment.  Ryan is sitting across from me, content with his meal and enjoying all of it but I don’t want to hear it. I’m bitter. He loves his sweet potato fries. He loves his plantains. He loves his scallops. He loves his shrimp. Shut up.

To add to my mood, there is a dog barking uncontrollably. His 9 year old owner is giggling and trying to muzzle his precious little mutt. I give him a death stare to let him know that no one else finds this funny and that I’m the bigger person here. Go play in the park over there little boy because if that dog comes around here again while I’m trying to enjoy my shitty meal, I’m gonna lose it. The boy looks concerned and I decide to back down after a good staring competition because there’s a chance he may tell his mother.

Ryan knows me all too well and knows what a shitty morning leads to: a shitty day. To combat my piss poor attitude he promises me two of my favorite things: A day of house hunting and ice cream. We (well, maybe just me) love to drive around and pretend we are interested in beautiful homes that we can’t afford. Ryan might just like the ice cream part.

Gone and never to return. I’m that angry. Taste of Boston, you’re a disgrace to the phenomenal seafood of Massachusetts and the hard working fishermen and shell fishers that make up our incredible and incomparable culture. Thanks to you, my inner Masshole that I’ve trying to control for the past 7 years in Tampa has resurfaced today.  You need to rename your establishment “Taste of New Jersey” and relocate to the Turnpike. 

Week 13: Grandma, What Big Eyes You Have...

I’ve lost an hour of sleep due to the time change and I’m groggy. In fact, I’m miserable. Last night we went to the movies and saw Red Riding Hood (you know, with the big bad wolf?)…. And now this morning I'm representing the NC State Wolfpack. Twenty-four years of my life and I don't even know if the word “wolf” has ever been included in my vocabulary and now, out of nowhere, I’m some creepy wolf fanatic. You may not know this but wolves are related to dogs so under normal circumstances I would boycott the entire species. However, because I saw Red Riding Hood last night I now know that wolves discriminate against unkempt village folk and have sex with hot actresses like Amanda Seyfried… so they must be respectable mammals.

The reason I'm representing the Wolfpack this morning is because Ryan has to work the Tampa College Fair as part of his alumni association responsibilities. Being the dedicated girlfriend I am I said I would help. Truth be told I actually just owe him a favor since he volunteered for one of my events a few weeks ago. I’d love to be in bed.

Prior to arriving at the college fair I threw on jeans and a red and black shirt seeing as Ryan was wearing jeans and a red plaid shirt. We needed to make a pit stop at his house on the way there to pick up some materials and without a warning he changed into black slacks, a red dress shirt and dress shoes. What an asshole.

I didn't think my obsession with wolves had escalated thus far but I'd rather be dressed as a frigan wolf mascot then appearing the way I do now. He's so adorable and I look like his jobless hippie girlfriend whose idea of dressing up is straightened hair and black pleather flip flops. Except I'm worse because I'm missing 3 toe nails and didn't even have the decency to paint the skin before leaving the house. I basically look like one of the village folk from Red Riding Hood. Today is a major fail already. I'm not thinking about eating, I'm thinking about wearing a prom dress to breakfast after this to one up his preppy ass. Lucky for me I had frontier arms senior year of high school and the dress still fits. 

Speaking of huge, a huge woman is the first to approach our table and she pulls her pants up right in front of me. The velour can’t cover her crack. It’s a lost cause. Unable to look away from her huge ass, I get caught staring. She says “Danggg Gurl. Somebuddy bought me these pants-they a 1X. Do I look like a 1X?!?!”  I was about to tell her I have no idea I don’t have any friends as big as you, but thankfully she didn’t let me speak and said “Gurlll I a 2X!”  Well lady I suggest you cover that whole accident of an upper pelvic area. And that ass. There are children here for goodness sake.

The Catholic University of America is in the booth across from us and they have two 70-something year olds working the table. I make an unfair assumption that they are handing out inexpensive hotel nightstand bibles but I can't confirm anything because if I get any closer chances are I’ll go up in flames.

So time goes on. Lots of cute high school students eager to lose their parents, their virginity, their underage IDs, their dignity, their scholarships, their siblings, their athletic abilities and their will to be a good person come up to my booth. They ask me all about my experience at NC State and I let them know they were some of the best years of my life. I also let them know that I would have graduated in 4 years, had I not studied abroad through one of their 250 international programs. I didn’t go to NC State but everybody’s buying it. I accidently told a young aspiring vet that that we didn’t have a veterinarian program only to later find out that NC State actually has one of the best veterinarian schools in the country. Oh well.

After 3 hours we were done working the fair and extremely indecisive about where we wanted to go for brunch. We sat through a long period of silence and a frustrating lack of preferences and recommendations (on both our parts), and then we set sail for the Colonadde. The Colonadde is on Bayshore Boulevard and I haven’t been there in about 4 years. They’ve been open since 1935 and I think the exact same people have been going there every day since.

The hostess tries to seat us but Ryan let’s her know that we don’t want to sit at a table and will wait longer for a booth. I’m not exactly sure when he became so high maintenance but sometimes when he acts like a dick to others I really enjoy it. I smirk like a snob and walk right back to the waiting room with him.  

So, here we go. Finally seated after watching Ryan slurp down a bloody mary and we’ve got a large menu in front of us. We’re definitely going to have to return at some point because we can’t possibly try everything. Ryan gets fried green tomatoes, a fried grouper sandwich, coleslaw and an order of spinach and artichoke dip for us to split. I get scallops, stuffed shrimp, rice pilaf and coleslaw. We also get complimentary muffins to snack on while we wait. Unfortunately the butter was too hard and the tiny muffins crumbled upon trying to maneuver a tasty bite.

The spinach and artichoke dip was amazing. It had buttery bread crumbs on the top of it and despite there being people around I continued to stick my fingers in it long after our dipping pitas were gone.

The shrimp: Best shrimp ever. Period. It was stuffed and in no way, shape or form could it be put in the same league as grilled shrimp or fried shrimp but that’s beyond the point. Had there not been elderly people everywhere I may have started eating it naked. When the stuffed shrimp hit my lips I found myself thinking that I would never need Ryan again. It’s been a great ride babe but these shrimp are the real deal. I could have a long term relationship with these little guys if it were socially acceptable. Socially acceptable? Who really knows what that is anymore seeing as the table across from us is reciting the Ten Commandments.

Ryan tackled his fried grouper sandwich like a true man. He ripped the healthy red tomatoes right out of the sandwich and replaced them with a big fat fried green tomato. I love him so much. He has a beard these days and there’s tarter sauce throughout it. I want to tell him but these tiny little scallops in front of me are more important. Oh what little wondrous pieces of joy. Seriously, I have died and gone to heaven. No really, I may have died because the lady next to us looks like “petrified wood.”  (Thanks to Ryan for clarifying what type of wood that woman’s face resembled—I would have just said bark).

We were stuffed beyond capacity and when the waiter asked us for dessert I had to tell him to get lost. The only thing I want is a couch and a diet pill. Possibly lipo. After the ride home I’m seriously debating the options. Out of nowhere Ryan told me that I should also start a fitness blog about working out every day. Really babe? Why don’t you instead just write me a condolence card that says “I’m sorry for your weight gain” alongside a balloon that’s ready to pop. Thanks to you this week is going to consist of smoothies and running and I’m not sure if there will be any time to pencil you in.  So until next Sunday, the eating is done.

Week 12: Sum Ting Great

The concept of a buffet supposedly arose in mid 17^th century France, when gentleman callers would arrive at the homes of ladies they wanted to “woo” unexpectedly. Their surprise arrival would throw the kitchen staff into a panic and the only food that could be served was a selection of whatever was found in the kitchen. Funny how time changes things. Today, you don’t typically find sluts at the buffet. They’re still busy participating in an “all you can eat” scenario but it’s not the type of scenario you’d bring your children or wife to. There also isn’t any “wooing” going on. The only woo I know of is the tiny Asian chef who keeps stirring the wok faster and faster and faster. Hence “Wooing.”   

Ryan and I are lounging at the pool of the infamous Biltmore Hotel, where Al Capone used to do sweet gangster things. We’ve been here all weekend and our wallets are telling us it’s time to go. Instead of partaking in the Biltmore’s $75 per person brunch, we’ve decided to further explore our surroundings. I already had a taste of the Biltmore’s food Saturday morning at 2am when I demanded mac and cheese while under the influence of white wine, PBR and pomegranate vodka. In a panic and afraid of what I might do next, Ryan dialed up room service. He’s a keeper. Only a real man would have the self confidence to order a children’s meal in the wee morning hours.  It was amazing, absolutely amazing, but Ryan and I aren’t typically repeat customers. We’re in a different city and thus far have successfully eaten each meal at a different venue the entire weekend. After two hours of tanning and starving ourselves in the hot Miami sun I start hallucinating about Chinese buffets.

Ryan does some quick research on his phone and discovers that there is a buffet called “Port of Call” just two miles away and it’s only $15 per person. The Web site is mobile friendly and has custom photography. My hunger and excitement is now a bit uncontrollable. These are expensive Asians. None of this fried cat bullshit that we get in Tampa (which I do admittedly enjoy).  This is going to be a fantastic high end buffet.

We decide to visit Port of Call right before we venture home on our 4 hour drive back to Tampa. On the way out a woman crashes her car by t-boning another car who was attempting to make a turn into the parking lot. Just when I think I should go check out the scene and say ahhh hello lady are you alive, what were you doing texting, I then think of how much that will delay us on our brunch adventure and choose to ignore the situation.

I get in the car and as usual my mind begins to take a stroll down memory lane, mixing thoughts of home alongside past buffet memories. When we were unruly teenagers we always used to trick tourists (“new friends”) on Cape Cod into going to our local Chinese Buffet. Once there, we would then tell them that this place had THE BEST CHINESE ICE CREAM YOU’VE EVER HAD. We’d offer to make them a cone, sneak a crawfish in there, cover it with soft serve vanilla and then just wait for our victim to lick its alien face! Oh the glory days.

Speaking of home, Boston’s great Larry Bird says that a winner is someone who recognizes his God-given talents, works his tail off to develop them into skills, and uses these skills to accomplish his goals. Charlie Sheen has me thinking about “winning” lately. I say that a winner is someone that recognizes that there is a strategy to an all you can eat buffet. It isn’t about eating everything. It’s about eating the most expensive things you can find in large quantities and spoiling the shit out of yourself. We park the car and I know that if I’m going to beat this buffet it’s going to take a lot of change. The meter is giving us 12 minutes for $0.25. Ryan fills the meter up for an hour’s worth and when he turns his back I quickly empty out my purse to increase the time to an hour and 36 minutes.

Just as we imagined, Port of Call was spotless with respectable waiters everywhere. Ryan thinks that the hostess is a hooker but I inform him that hookers don’t wear white dresses, regardless of whether or not it is backless.  Before we even get our waters, we charge the buffet. Oh glorious buffet. Sushi, Traditional Chinese Food, Waffles, Crepes, Omelette Bar, Desserts, Ice Cream and even a Carving Station including delicious churassco and corned beef. Naturally, we filled our plates with everything it could hold without tipping over. Our first plates were entirely sushi.  The buffet even included unlimited refills of mimosas except we had a long drive ahead of us and decided against it.  

When we took our seats I felt as if we were being watched and ridiculed by our hideous neighbors but the sushi deserved more attention at this time. For sushi being produced in mass quantities I must say that it was unbelievable. I couldn’t get enough of it; I was inhaling it. Our neighbors were clearly only attending the brunch buffet for the booze. It didn’t take long for us to finish our first plate of food and as we went up for seconds I heard one mumble something about us being disgusting. I felt like saying sweetie a few pounds of General Tso can be shed but even plastics won’t fix that face… but I wasn’t 100% sure I had even heard her correctly so I held my breath and my bitch stare. I was all smiles on the way back to the buffet.  

Our second round of food included the carving station and Chinese food. Amazing lo mein. Shitty General Tso. But the best part about a buffet is that you can load up on what you like and there are no penalties for ordering wrong. Ryan even got a third plate of desserts; I left that to him though because by that point I was trying to control my urge to vomit in public.

If we could have stayed there all day instead of driving back to Tampa, I would have. There was a feeling of dissatisfaction because I wanted so much more but literally couldn’t fit any more sushi anywhere. If I had pockets and a purse I might have even filled them up. Port of Call of Coral Cables you’re a gem. You get two thumbs up and your sushi chefs are brilliant. I can only hope that some day I end up back in Coral Gables to see what new creations you’ve come up with. Until my Asian explorations take me elsewhere, you stand second to none in my books.

Week 11: The River Rats

The smell of sweat, river water and camp fire encompasses our tent. It’s 8am and I’m laughing out loud like a loony because I can’t quite grasp what went on yesterday. We’ve been camping on the Chassahowitzka River and as we’re about to start packing up I want to first make sure that I recall every fantastic moment of yesterday. Ryan and I have a quick debate over what the best part was. He verbally accosts me for sucking at rowing; we definitely had a good lesson in teamwork this weekend.  We rented a two person kayak to go explore the springs and wildlife and I was in the back, not strong enough to steer his heavy man ass in the front. Truth be told, I shouldn’t have been in the back to begin with, but something was telling me to stay put since we were exploring uncharted waters. My love for him runs deep but if we do after all encounter something, my life is a bit more valuable. He’s older than me and I haven’t lived long enough just yet. It’s only fair that he enters the mouth of river monster. So yes, the constant fighting and crashing into logs and/or patches of grass was hilarious. For me.

While exploring some underwater caves Ryan was bit on the finger while pointing at a fish. A fish that was about 3 inches long. That as well, was hilarious. He screamed so loud hillbillies for miles could hear. He wasn’t the only one embarrassed that day because hours prior to that I had fallen in a sink hole up to my thighs. The grand highlight however was our encounter with some locals. While kayaking our way back to the campground we passed a boat with what I can only describe as an entire escaped ward from a mental hospital. It was like a bad scary movie that we were about to become the cast of.

The passengers consisted of two old trailer park princesses, a large dog, a middle-aged Gilligan who was stoned off his ass and a flaming young boy with Beiber blonde hair, a full body wet suit and white Tommy Hilfiger loafers. They were hand rolling cigarettes and invited us on their boat for a drink. The flaming young boy would not take no for an answer and with our lack of common sense and thrill seeking attitudes, we boarded their boat. Although I was intoxicated, it was impossible to get on their level. The young boy referred to the middle-aged Gilligan as “THE DOCTOR.” One of the women somehow sliced her hand and without hesitation a cooler of aloe stalks were whipped out, broken, and wrapped around her hand to “cure her.”  We wanted to document this moment and asked the flaming Beiber to take a picture of us. Upon giving him our camera he took approximately 12 pictures of us while we were not looking and then went on to photograph a 10 year old boy who was fishing across the spring. It wasn’t until he mentioned loving little boys that I decided to ask for my camera back.  The other woman appeared after being gone on land for quite some time and returned in a panic saying “it’s time to go.” Within about 30 seconds we were kicked off their boat, back into our kayak, and they were gone. I’m still not convinced that we weren’t somehow drugged because the entire scenario was puzzling.   

Shit. I forgot that I am supposed to be writing about brunch. SO, after we reminisced, packed everything up and left camp, we went on to find a local gem: The Breakfast Club of Spring Hill. I was starving because our cookout on the camp fire last night had a few accidents which resulted in sacrificing some chicken to the soot.

Again, to our disbelief, this raved about breakfast joint is in a strip mall. Two weeks in a row and we can’t seem to shake off this retail atmosphere. As we sit at our table waiting to be served I look out the window only to see a greyhound adoption table in the parking lot. Skinny dogs everywhere.  I envision my head on their long slender bodies and then realize that the reality of it all is actually heading down a path which involves my head being put on a moose. Thanks to these Sunday Brunch Adventures the greyhound factor may never be achievable. The menu looks great. We ended up ordering: biscuits and gravy, chicken fried steak, home fries, hash browns, a side of bacon and an Italian sausage omelette.

As we waited for our food I took my mind off the greyhounds and decided to take in our immediate surroundings. What a divided crowd. Ryan and I don’t fit in on either side. The Breakfast Club is full of elderly couples. Retired and adorable elderly couples and friends. Every old woman in there has a manicure and pedicure which makes me think that somewhere down the road is a nice little misplaced community. There is no way in hell they came from Chassahowitzka.  The other half of The Breakfast Club is complete white trash. Between the facial piercings, tattoos, muffin tops, t-backs, mullets, camouflage attire, jean shorts and hairspray, I just can’t take it. I begin to think that we are fortunate our camping reservation was in between a college class of marine biology losers who were still playing truth or dare years beyond the acceptable age and a couple who snored loud enough to drown out all wildlife. We should be grateful--it could have been worse.

Our food arrived and there was silence for a good 20 minutes as we stuffed our faces. Everything was good but I have to admit that Ryan out-ordered me. His meal was fantastic. For someone who rarely eats country fried steak, I loved it. I wanted to eat the entire thing but after he let me know that he didn’t care for my sausage omelette I realized there was no trade to me made. His sausage gravy was delicious and I did manage to steal more than half of it for my biscuit. Amazing. Also, our side of bacon was cooked exactly how I like it- long and crispy. That always makes me a happy gal.  

All in all though, despite pure happiness and satisfaction, it’s safe to say we’ll never be back. We were satisfied with the meal, but we’ll probably never be in Chassahowitzka again and The Breakfast Club is not worth a long drive. In all fairness though, I can’t imagine driving more than an hour anywhere for the sole purpose of food. Moving on kids! More places to be.