I beheld my moon-shaped face this morning and knew that last night's fried apple cheesecake was laughing at me. The perfect roundness of my cheeks told a dark story of defeat, of a bitter battle waged and lost. My close resemblance to a dumpling was proof of the saying: "In old country, cheesecake consumes you."
The FAC (fried apple cheesecake) came courtesy of The Tavern in Central Square, where I dragged Boyfriend to because I felt entitled to comfort food after being unable to eat most of the day due to my body's vigorous attempts to expel phlegm via unstoppable coughing fits at work. My, that last sentence was so long it deserves to be written in Spanish. Pero no hablo español, so sad.
Moving on, prior to FAC, I'd had my beer of choice, a black & tan, and half of a grilled filet sandwich (thanks to McDonald's, I always thought filet was a type of fish). I also finished a side salad in between stealing chunks of Boyfriend's mashed potatoes. The greens made me think I was being good, and because balance is so important in life, I just had to have something to counteract all those nutrients. Enter the fried apple cheesecake.
Not only was it made of cream cheese and then deep fried, it also came with two enormous scoops of vanilla ice cream topped off with syrup. I mean, come on. Obviously, deep frying a cheesecake is never enough. Your arteries won't block themselves, you know.
I was fine after polishing off my half of the horribly awesome dessert, but Boyfriend complained of a tummy ache afterwards, as we watched 1995's action film Assassins starring a sinfully sexy and young Antonio Banderas on crack. Sly Stallone and Julianne Moore may have been there, too. The point is, we were miserable -- he holding his stomach in pain, me hacking up my lungs (ice cream = dairy = thicker mucus). Only Sheba was happy, shuttling back and forth between laps as the fancy took her, and sometimes squishing herself between us, just to mix it up.
It is now the next day and I am burping up a storm. Apparently, like my emotional development, my reaction to cheesecake is delayed. Oh my. Aren't my coworkers lucky!
The FAC (fried apple cheesecake) came courtesy of The Tavern in Central Square, where I dragged Boyfriend to because I felt entitled to comfort food after being unable to eat most of the day due to my body's vigorous attempts to expel phlegm via unstoppable coughing fits at work. My, that last sentence was so long it deserves to be written in Spanish. Pero no hablo español, so sad.
Moving on, prior to FAC, I'd had my beer of choice, a black & tan, and half of a grilled filet sandwich (thanks to McDonald's, I always thought filet was a type of fish). I also finished a side salad in between stealing chunks of Boyfriend's mashed potatoes. The greens made me think I was being good, and because balance is so important in life, I just had to have something to counteract all those nutrients. Enter the fried apple cheesecake.
Not only was it made of cream cheese and then deep fried, it also came with two enormous scoops of vanilla ice cream topped off with syrup. I mean, come on. Obviously, deep frying a cheesecake is never enough. Your arteries won't block themselves, you know.
I was fine after polishing off my half of the horribly awesome dessert, but Boyfriend complained of a tummy ache afterwards, as we watched 1995's action film Assassins starring a sinfully sexy and young Antonio Banderas on crack. Sly Stallone and Julianne Moore may have been there, too. The point is, we were miserable -- he holding his stomach in pain, me hacking up my lungs (ice cream = dairy = thicker mucus). Only Sheba was happy, shuttling back and forth between laps as the fancy took her, and sometimes squishing herself between us, just to mix it up.
It is now the next day and I am burping up a storm. Apparently, like my emotional development, my reaction to cheesecake is delayed. Oh my. Aren't my coworkers lucky!
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