Category Archives: Food

I Did It.

I hit my goal weight!

I FOUND THE WORLD’S BEST BACON.

This isn't it.

This isn’t it.

During recent travels, I stumbled across a fun little bar and restaurant in Seattle called The 5 Point Café. (No, they’re not paying me to mention this. Though if they were, I’d ask for compensation exclusively in pig.) They opened in 1929 and own the bragging rights of “the longest run family eatery in Seattle and oldest bar still in existence in Belltown.”

Seattle_-_Five_Point_Cafe_01

I did not know this when I entered.

All I went equipped with was the recommendation of my hotel concierge:

ME: Any good spots nearby for breakfast?

CONCIERGE: Well 5 Point has sort of your typical diner breakfast, and they’re just up the block. Everyone has tattoos.

ME (to self): Gee, I’m sure you mentioned that last bit knowing I’ll fit right in.

Why didn’t anyone warn me they don’t wear colors in the Pacific Northwest?

Seriously. Why didn’t anyone warn me they don’t wear colors in the Pacific Northwest? (Photo taken in front of de wonderbaar Auld Holland Inn in Oak Harbor, WA.)

The idea of an omelet and mimosa was too much temptation to resist for this Jersey native, so I zipped up my bright red raincoat and trekked around the corner to find an unassuming café with a large U-shaped bar and seating on either side.

5-pt-cafe-interior

I was told I could sit anywhere, and because it was a quiet Wednesday morning, decided to hog (pun SO intended) a booth. When the coffee came, I closed my eyes and smiled. Ah, Seattle. Thank you. Thank you for getting it. I may wear neon, but I like my coffee black, and jet fuel strong.

I took an uncharacteristically long time to order, because everything on the menu sounded so good. I was craving avocado, so finally went with the California eggs benedict. At the last minute, I said, “Can I get a side of bacon, too, please?” It was $4 for 4 strips. I couldn’t decide if this was a bargain or a rip-off, so reserved judgment.

When my plate came, I was overwhelmed. In the best way. There were two poached eggs atop tomatoes and avocado, resting on dense english muffins. All of this was smothered in hollandaise sauce, alongside PERFECT hash browns: shredded, with a completely crunchy, crispy top. 

5-Pt-Cafe-CA-eggs-benedict

Good morning to ME.

But then.

Oh.

And then.

The afterthought side dish:

5-Pt-bacon-heaven

“Our famous bacon,” the waiter said, as he rested the magical plate to my left. Four strips of the thickest bacon I’d ever seen sat before me. Still, I was skeptical.  Was it too thick? Would it still be crispy?

I took a bite and… cue Meg Ryan-When-Harry-Met-Sally moment. It melted in my mouth. I took another bite. My life was forever changed. It was tender and fluffy, yet fatty and crispy. I saw the face of Leonardo DiCaprio wrapped in the voice of Justin Timberlake ensconced in the body of Channing Tatum.

Their website makes it sound like they might marinate it. Maybe it was deep fried. I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t even know what I did on the rest of that trip. All I know is I’m going back.

For bacon.

5-pt-bacon-2

What’s the most decadent thing you’ve ever eaten?

P.S. – I’m actually headed to BaconFest 2014 in Chicago next month and will let you know if I find anything that can top this. Anyone else going?!

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Maine: Best Worst Trip Ever

Last week, Rachel’s Table and I headed north to Freeport, Maine to visit Darla from She’s A Maineiac. I guess we were kind of excited.

Maine-Trip-Jan2014-yay

We were originally going to go Friday-Sunday, but decided to leave on Thursday afternoon so we’d have a full day with Darla while her two adorable kiddos were in school.

Without traffic, it’s a 6 hour drive from New Jersey.

We took Rachel’s car, agreeing to split the driving time. Did I mention her car is new? And if there’s a pothole, I’ll hit it?

Somewhere between New York and Connecticut, we (and by we I mean me) hit 37 potholes. And I’m not talking little divots in the pavement.

crater

Good job on 15 North, guys. Really. It’s impressive.

On Rachel’s high-tech dashboard, we watched the air pressure in the driver’s side tire plummet.

Rache-tire-pressure-dashboard-Maine

By the time we reached Boxborough, Massachusetts, we had a flat. Rachel pulled over while I surreptitiously checked her fuel tank. Plenty to keep the car running and heated for at least an hour or two. Whew.

“I don’t know how to change a tire. Do you?” she asked with a laugh.

“I’m from New Jersey. I don’t even know how to pump my own gas,” I replied. “But I just renewed my AAA membership!”

Maine-trip-AAA

In under 30 minutes, a tow truck arrived. The driver got the spare out of the trunk and started rooting around while Rachel and I bounced up and down trying to keep warm.

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Rache “spares” a smile for this photo. *groan*

“I can’t find the key,” he announced.

It took us much longer than it should have to understand that tires have unique “keys” to unscrew the lug nuts so no one steals them. The spare in your car is supposed to come equipped with its matching key.

the_more_you_know2

We tore apart the car, but alas, no key. Thanks, Toyota.

Eventually, he said our only option was to go to the nearby dealership and have them change the tire – when they opened. In the morning.

Oh, did I mention Rache had 20-inch fancy rims?

This detail becomes important later.

This detail becomes important later.

“I’m so sorry I broke your car!” I wailed for the first of many times.

After the tow truck driver unloaded the car at the dealership, he said he could drive us to the nearest hotel. Nevermind that we had two non-refundable rooms waiting for us a mere two hours away in Maine.

“Do you have anywhere for us to put our luggage?” we asked.

“Just your laps.”

Our essentials were scattered between six bags, not including my swinging 1970s, fully-loaded cooler, which took up half the back seat. I grabbed my laptop and two bottles of champagne. “Screw it,” I said to Rachel. “This is all I need.”

When we arrived at the hotel, Rachel explained our predicament to the front desk. The man at the counter replied deliberately, “You have a coupon, riiight?” He nodded slowly.

“Um…yeeees,” Rachel said, catching on.

When we saw the receipt: 50% off! What’s more, our room overlooked a funky indoor pool, white lights and palm trees (you go on with your bad self, Holiday Inn), so we opened the balcony sliders, and more importantly, the champagne, and toasted to the kindness of strangers.

Holiday-inn-balcony-view-Maine

Maine-champagne-Jan-2014

Rachel called the dealership at 8am the next morning, and they finally got back to us with the verdict two hours later.

“It’s not just a flat. Your rim is damaged beyond repair.”

“Of course it is,” Rachel replied.

“And since you have 20-inch ones, we’d have to custom order a replacement. It wouldn’t be here until Monday.”

“So…my only options are to wait until Monday…or get 4 new 18-inch rims and tires?”

“Correct. And it’d probably cost the same either way.”

She covered the mouthpiece. “I knew. I knew when we got that car with those friggin’ rims…” She spoke into the receiver, “I guess I’ll have to get four new tires and rims, then. How long will that take? …Okay.”

“I’m so sorry!” I cried.

“Jules, it’s not your fault. I hit them, too,” Rachel reassured me, gracious as ever. (It was totally my fault.)

Turns out they had to order the ‘regular’ rims from a nearby dealer and couldn’t start work until 1pm.

They gave us a complimentary rental car, and we killed time at a local diner.

“There’s no lobster on this f&*&#% menu.”

"I haven't showered in 24 hours!"

“I’ve been in these clothes for 27 hours!”

At 3pm, they gave us the good news: “Almost done.”

At 4pm: “We just realized we have to put all of the tire censors back on. It’s going to be another hour.”

5pm: “Okay, just finishing the paperwork.”

5:02pm: “Our computers just froze.”

5:30pm: “Let me give you the damaged tire and rim. Oh, wait, it’s filthy, we need a bag. Hang on.”

5:35pm: “We can’t find any more bags.”

5:45pm: Finally, FINALLY on our way. “Good thing we left Thursday night.”

7:00pm: Reach Maine.

7:30pm: Darla texted. “I can’t get out of my driveway. It’s a sheet of ice.”

That’s right. At last we were in Maine, 24 hours behind schedule, and NO DARLA.

But there was lobster. Lots and lots of lobster.

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IMG_5522

These were called “Lobsicles.” Heh.

Saturday morning, another text from Darla: “I still can’t get out!!”

So Rachel and I shuffled around the icy streets of Freeport alone, waiting for the temperature to climb above freezing.

At one point, it was so slippery, a gift shop owner reached out a hand while holding the door, towing us inside. Later, when we peered longingly into Freeport Chowder House, the man inside waved us in.

“Are you open?” we asked.

“Not for two hours, but I never turn down customers,” he replied. “I don’t have the fryer going yet, but what do you want? Lobster roll?”

Rachel and I looked at each other. “YES.”

Breakfast of champions bloggers.

Breakfast of champions bloggers.

It was noon on Saturday before we saw Darla, but she was worth the wait.

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The sun even came out…just in time for us to drive home.

Bartending for Rache and Darla from my favorite possession: My parents' 1970s cooler. Dude. It keeps ice frozen for THREE days. IN THE SUMMER.

The (in)famous swinging 1970s cooler, a.k.a. my favorite possession. It keeps ice frozen for THREE days. IN THE SUMMER.

Despite the many snafus, this li’l trip north had so many heart-warming moments, I wouldn’t trade it for anything would totally trade it for another 10am lobster roll.

IMG_5537 - Version 2

And they say chivalry is dead.

P.S. – I even learned how to pump my own gas!

Jules-pumps-gas-Maine-Jan2014

Since the word count on this post is already as atrocious as the potholes on Route 15, I hope you’ll head over to Rachel’s Table and She’s A Maineiac to read more about our adventures!

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Have you ever had any vacations that didn’t go, ah, according to plan?

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Do You Know What Today Is?

It’s Rachel’s Table‘s birthday!

Rachel is a fellow blogger I’m lucky enough to call a real-life friend, though we met through the magical blogosphere.

First meeting.

First meeting.

Second meeting.

Second meeting.

Third meeting. Toldja.

Third meeting. What can I say? She makes me feel all warm and Instagram-y inside.

Back in April, when I celebrated my 31st 21st birthday, Rachel gathered a bunch of bloggy friends to write haikus for me.

Dear Rachey-Poo Head,

That was the Best. Present. Ever.

Chocolate bacon.

I’m sorry. I don’t know where the “chocolate bacon” came from.

Yes I do. And I know where it's going.

Yes I do. And I know where it’s going.

I think about Rachel all the time.

I thought of Rachel when I texted my hub, Peppermeister, about Monday night’s dinner:

Rachels-Table-text

I thought of Rachel when I made last night’s dinner, and Peppermeister left me a bowl of his mysterious homegrown peppers. Surely I couldn’t put any in the bacon turkey meatloaf without trying them first?

Rache-bday-pepper-pain

Speaking of.

I’m not sure your present has arrived, Rache, so spoiler alert: It’s to recognize your Peppermeister Roulette (hot pepper tasting) victory against the man himself:

I might be sleeping on the couch tonight. Care to join me, Rachey-Poo?

I might be sleeping on the couch tonight. Care to join me, Rachey-Poo?

In all seriousness, Rachel is one of those undeniably special people who is not only talented, beautiful and clever, but always knows just what to say to let you know she’s there for you, and she gets it she’ll totally hook you up with the Amish bacon. I hope you’ll join me in wishing her a VERY happy birthday!

If you had to wear someone’s face on your chest, whose would it be (besides Rachel’s) and why? (Bet you didn’t think you’d be answering that question today.)

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What’s UP With That Lady?

***Psst: This is my 300th post! So you really should like it and leave a glowing comment. I don’t even care if you read it.***

So I’m married to this guy they call Peppermeister.

He likes peppers. A lot.

He likes peppers. A lot.

Which means I like peppers. A lot.

All kidding aside, I’ve learned to embrace my beloved’s hobby of growing insanely spicy peppers. This past weekend, I even agreed to go to Bower’s Chile Pepper Festival in eastern Pennsylvania.

We took his car, since mine decided it’s done with life.

The evolution of my transmission fluid, as depicted by Darrin, the auto shop guru.

The evolution of [two flushes of] my transmission fluid, as depicted by Darrin, Auto Shop Guru, Sep 7, 2013. “Yours was like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

For $5, we found a sweet parking spot a couple of blocks away. In an Amish man’s yard. I appreciated both his entrepreneurial nature and his lawn accessories.

Pepper-festival-yard

We had no idea what to expect, but the festival was jalapeño-poppin’. There were plenty of vendors touting everything from mild pepper mustards and jams and homegrown delights…

Pepper-fesitval-colorful-peppers

…to “butt-puckering” demon-peppers:

Pepper-festival-Pucker-Butt-Ed

Mostly, I tried not to lose Peppermeister amid his people.

Seriously. They all looked like this.

Seriously. They all looked like this.

I even partook in the madness.

I actually love this one: Hinkelhatz.

This is actually one of my favorites (I know. I have a favorite): Hinkelhatz.

But my two favorite moments had nothing to do with peppers. Not really, anyway.

FAVORITE MOMENT #1

Pepper-festival-lady-1

“She just wanted the attention,” Peppermeister, the Psych major, said on the ride home. “Did you notice she wouldn’t eat it until everyone was watching?”

“I gave her a lot of attention. I told her she was insane. I thought she’d like it.”

“She didn’t want the attention of WOMEN.”

“Ahhhhhhh.”

FAVORITE MOMENT #2

Pepper-festival-lady-2

We took a wagon ride over to the nearby pepper farm, and they left it up to the passengers to decide how many could fit on the wagon.

“I think we should sit on opposite sides so both legs are touching strangers,” Peppermeister joked while we waited on line.

He never could have imagined a woman would squeeze herself onboard…and on his lap. Without a single word.

What are your favorite “people watching” places and/or moments?

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Pi Day Pie Challenge: Are You Ready For the Next Level?

Remember how much you love my Tollhouse pie, JM? *cough*

Remember how much you love my Tollhouse pie, JM? *cough*

My friend, JM Randolph, author of the spectacularly funny and engaging blog, Accidental Stepmom, is hosting a Pi Day Pie Challenge.

What the fudge is that, you ask?

In her early blogging days, JM had to make a ‘Pi Day Pie’ for her stepdaughter’s math class – they were celebrating March 14th (= 3.14) as Pi Day. Though JM claims to have half-assed it, this was the result:

Amazeballs.

Amazeballs.

This year, JM decided to host a contest where you can create your best Pi Day Pie, and the winner gets “Poopourri” (seeing smelling is believing)! But really, everyone’s a winner, because… pie.

There was obviously no way I wasn’t entering this contest.

I love pie. Me ‘n pie (pie and I?) go way back. I even talk about pie on my About page. I’m very proud of the fact that I make my own crust.

But this experience uncovered a dark secret. Something I’m hesitant to admit…

I f&*$#% hate making pie crust!

I hate it the way Michelle hates wrapping presents.

The way Speaker7 loves hates 50 Shades of Grey.

The way Thoughtsy hates unfrosted Pop-Tarts.

It starts with the stress of adding ice water. Not regular water. Ice water. One drop too little, your dough won’t stick together. One drop too much, you’ve got chewy, tough crust.

Pi Day Pie Water

Can you hear my heart pounding?

Then there’s cleaning the food processor. (Oh sure – you try making crust without a food processor. That’s what hell looks like: A stick of cold butter, flour and a fork.)

Ah, like scrubbing super glue with tears.

Ah, like scrubbing super glue with tears.

Then there’s making an even bigger mess rolling it out, which, half the time, ends in a piece of dough the shape of Texas.

Pray for me.

I’m not even kidding – that scar on my wrist is from making pie.

Nevertheless, I finally got my chocolate chip-walnut Tollhouse pie assembled, still not sure how I was going to decorate it.

Pi Day Pie oven

Just as I closed the oven door, inspiration hit.

Next. Level.

Next. Level.

And it was green lights and all rights from there on out.

Note my vain attempt to counterbalance this activity with a green smoothie.

Speaking of green, note my vain attempt to counterbalance this activity with a kale smoothie.

I've never done anything more fulfilling in my life.

I’ve never done anything more fulfilling in my life.

And the final product…

Pi Day Pie Final

Game. On.

Deadline: 11:59pm EST on March 13, 2013. Email your photos to JM or blog it up like me and link back to her source post!

Do you have any cooking / baking pet peeves?

Neighborly Lovin’

Unlike my mom, Babs, whose neighbors string up deer carcasses 30 feet from her back porch, Peppermeister (Husband #1) and I have a decidedly pleasant rapport with all of our neighbors.

We’re pretty spread out here in western New Jersey, and there’s a kick-ass balance between “what you do is your business” and “but I am curious about that package, so I’ll help you carry it inside.”  Our next door neighbors, Dave and Judy, threw us a welcome party when we first moved in, complete with a homemade banner, and, more importantly, Sangria.

14-Welcome

Our neighbor around the corner, Linda, dropped off a bushel of apples from her orchard this fall, while the ones across the street gave us a discount on our Christmas tree (yes, there’s a Christmas tree farm across the street! It’s amazeballs out here, Chipmunks, I’m telling you…even if you do lose power every time an owl sneezes).

ColeRd-23Nov2012

As if that wasn’t enough, then there’s our neighbor, Jeff. He’s close to our age, and lives behind us in a gorgeous house. He’s the quintessential neighbor: He owns every power tool under the sun and knows how to use them all, helped us clear trees post Hurricane-Sandy, and leaves delicious food in the mailbox. Peppermeister doesn’t even mind the pepper-growing competition, with Jeff’s garden in plain sight.

This Valentine’s Day, I thought it was time to show Jeff how I really felt. It started with my famous homemade double-chocolate cookies:

My BFF, Jenn, gave me those sweet-ass Ziploc bags.

My BFF, Jenn, gave me those sweet-ass Ziploc bags.

And ended with this note:

Dearest Jeff,

I must be quick, for Peppermeister does not know of this!

Jeff-cookies-bagYour seafood sauce was the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted. Bestill my heart!

I’m slowly poisoning Peppermeister.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

-Go Jules Go

Psst…between you and me, Peppermeister is looking a little worse for the wear. It’s only a matter of time, Jeff.

What’s the nicest and/or creepiest thing a neighbor has ever done for you?

I Tasted Another Man’s Peppers

Chipmunks, when I dream, I dream big bad.

And by dream I mean scheme.

I set my sights on things like embarrassing my friends. Or my in-laws. Or my web design classmates.

It almost never backfires. (Except for when it always backfires.)

Up until last week, I was still dissatisfied, though. A nagging, long-time dream eluded me:

Making my Current Husband, Peppermeister, jealous.

You see,  he’s always been incredibly secure, and, well, it’s maddening. Like, who is he to steal all the confidence in the world and leave nothing for the rest of us? Am I right?

What’s more, in order to keep the relationship balanced, I assumed the surplus jealousy he was unwilling to feel. Exhausting.

I yearned to put this pepper-lover in his place.

I tried talking about other men, crafting elaborate schemes to secure a second husband, flaunting my assets… Nothing. Nary a raised eyebrow or passive-aggressive-taking-of-the-last-Hot-Pocket.

Argh!

The closest I ever came? Justin Timberlake hosting Saturday Night Live:

“You know he’s not as funny as you think he is,” Peppermeister commented, watching me howl as J.T. brought it on down to Omelet-ville.

My heart fluttered. Could this be it? Was it not perfect teeth, rock hard abs, unfathomable wealth and a melodious voice, but another man’s comedic talent that would rile him?

“Are you jealous?” I asked.

“No. I’m funnier,” Peppermeister calmly replied.

Double argh!

Is it time to finally give up and accept his constant praise and unconditional support? I wondered.

Then, as if the chipmunk gods had spoken, last week Peppermeister caught sight of something resting on the kitchen counter:

“What the hell is this?” he asked, eyes as fiery as his homemade sriracha sauce.

Bingo.

“Oh that?” I batted my eyelashes. “This guy at work gave it to me. He said he has more peppers than he knows what to do with.”

I paused.

“And you don’t grow that kind.”

“This isn’t organic,” he spat.

“He said they were,” I replied innocently.

“Get this out of my kitchen.”

“He sits right next to me,” I sighed. “I just love the regular bell peppers.”

He stormed out of the kitchen, and I laughed and laughed and laughed.

At last.

At long last.

So. What keeps your relationship spicy? (PG-rated, please, Chipmunks.)

***BLOGGY NOTE(S): The deadline for my “Hold Onto Your Hats” Halloween Contest is Oct 27th! The prize is amazing: A jack-o-lantern designed and carved just for you by yours truly…and Sun-Staches mustache glasses!

Also? I’m sorry I’ve been pretty M.I.A. lately; lots of fun things to share with you soon. In the meantime, please know that you and blogging are an important part of my life. I really mean that. I hope it makes you as uncomfortable as my coworker [with the bell peppers] would be if he read this post.***

On Blogging & Bacon

It must be Monday.

I love blogging, and I love bacon. For some reason, I rarely talk about either.

Until today!

One thing I love about both is their ability to bring people together. Run a contest on your blog, or put out a plate of bacon-wrapped appetizers, and the result is the same. Better yet, run a contest with a bacon-chocolate bar prize.

Not that I’d know anything about that.

I love when other bloggers talk about blogging and/or bacon. Like Peg and JM. Yet I feel self-conscious doing so, like eating bacon and not having a napkin. You guys don’t mind if I make a mess though, right?

When I started this blog in February 2011, I had no idea what lurked behind the blogging curtain. I thought it might be scary. And not in the hey-girl-you’re-almost-out-of-bacon way, but more in the I-like-to-make-pictures-out-of-toenail-clippings way. I didn’t fully appreciate the prevalence of blogs; I never thought about the fact that some websites I frequented, like Perez Hilton, were really blogs.

My favorite bloggers inspire me to step up my game and invite me to participate in their dialogue. As a writer, this is such a gift. And it’s free! So, you know, you can still bring home the bacon.

To pay tribute to all of those who inspire me (and if you’re wondering who that is, my Blogroll page is a good start!), and to those who are new to this wacky and wonderful world of bloggy deliciousness, I thought I’d offer a few wise words.

Dang, Chipmunks. This is exciting.

Here are the 3 most important things I’ve learned from almost a year and a half of blogging. You may or may not be surprised to find the same principles apply in every day life.

1.) Sincerity – “enough about my bacon, let’s talk about yours”

There is no faster way to shoot yourself in the foot drop your bacon on the host’s white carpeting than to leave a comment that proves you didn’t read the post, or to leave comments plugging your own blog. Typically, if commenting on another blog, you should try to keep the focus on that blogger and their content.

I had no idea when I started a blog that it was a community, and a community that wants to TALK! I didn’t ask questions of my readers (not that I had many!), and I didn’t even realize I should respond to comments. Now I crave that dialogue, and try to answer every single comment I get. Often that’s far more rewarding than the writing itself.

2.) Generosity – Share those Tips Strips (of bacon)

One surefire way to increase readership is to read other blogs. Be generous with your time and support, and you’ll reap the rewards.

When I started blogging, I only read 2 or 3 other blogs. Now I follow almost 100. It’s not realistic to keep up with everyone, of course, but I genuinely enjoy all of the blogs I follow, and typically devote over an hour a day just to reading them. I also almost always comment. Leaving thoughtful comments is one of the only ways to get noticed in a world jam-packed with people vying for the same bacon.

 If you’re intimidated by big name bloggers, like Kristen Lamb or The Bloggess, don’t be. Remember they feel the same as you do about getting comments. And probably bacon.

3.) Perserverance – Makin’ Bacon

We all experience writer’s block, have personal obligations that take our focus away from writing, or simply just don’t ‘feel like it.’ Even if you miss a week, or a month, don’t give up. Blogging can truly open doors.

When I started this blog, I had very few followers. My mom. My husband. I tried to post 2-4 times a week, but even after 6 months, I had posts that didn’t get a single comment. I kept at it, increased my engagement, and as of this year, I’ve had almost 100,000 hits on this blog. I’ve also gotten several paid writing jobs and opportunities to write for highly trafficked websites. I say this not to be a Braggy McBaconBoaster, but just to encourage you and let you know: You don’t have to be serious to take your blog seriously.

…Is anyone else hungry?

What are some lessons you’ve learned about blogging? Or a question to fellow bloggers? To non-bloggers: What keeps you coming back to your favorite blogs?

Why I’m a Terrible Wife

Yesterday at 8am I found myself driving to the closest drug store. Giggling.

Peppermeister had a bout of…well, he had an upset stomach, and it was all my fault.

Back in our uber blonde days, I only laughed at him when he fell during band performances.

The previous night, I’d convinced us both that getting food from Sonic, a fast-food chain where you park and order old-school style, was a really good idea. Never mind that we’d recently eaten at a post-baptism party*, and that normally trans fat is about as appealing to me as watching 30-year-old men play video games in their parents’ basement.

On Saturday, Sonic cheese tots seemed absolutely necessary. It might have been the after effects of the heroin cough suppressants talking. (If you’re doubting my commitment to the guilty pleasure-ful life, know that I indulge in bacon and butter in a way that would make the Two Fat Ladies proud. It’s all-natural fat… Okay. *sigh* Sometimes White Castle just RULES.)

We perused the unfamiliar menu on our lap tops. Peppermeister fixated on the Sonic Blast shake, which was vanilla ice cream mixed with candy bar bits. He wanted Snickers.

What I’m trying to say is it was big.

When he returned home with the “food,” I couldn’t see him behind the cup in his hand. Picture the Duggar family lined up side by side, and all their cousins stacked on top.

“It’s got to be a whole gallon of ice cream,” I marveled in the way people marvel at puppeteers and Charlie Sheen.

“I know!” Peppermeister replied gleefully as he dug in. Between his only two options, medium and large, he was confident he’d made the right shake-size decision.

My own super-sized cheese tots were less than satisfying, despite the promising heat-saving foil sleeve they came wrapped in. Melted American cheese slices covered the tots, as opposed to the globs of glow-in-the-dark Cheez product I was looking forward to.

We passed out watching the only unseen episode of Modern Family we had left (you chipmunks were right. That show is the shiz!).

I woke up several times during the night to down large glasses of water. The amount of salt in my meal rivaled the Dead Sea. My lips are still wrinkled.

Peppermeister faced a far worse fate. I witnessed a true guilty pleasure overdose.

“C’mon, Uncle Jesse!” I called to the dog in the morning, loudly enough for Peppermeister to hear. “We’ve got to go get daddy some more ice cream!”

Giggling during the ride to Rite Aid, I immediately realized I was a terrible wife. But I couldn’t stop picturing that giant cup and his utter delight as he devoured the shake, and maybe you just never get too old for potty humor.

If you’re expecting that I learned some kind of lesson as a result of this ‘terrible wife’ revelation, you should probably know that while Peppermeister moaned beneath the heating pad, I suppressed laughter and wrote this post.

What regret looks like. (That’s a full-size bottle of water! …Okay. It’s not. But still. Don’t even think about trying to tackle this shake without a well-stocked medicine cabinet.)

Have you ever laughed when you shouldn’t have?

*filed under: Things I’m Not Allowed to Blog About.

Photo Credit (Duggar Family) – tlc.com

GoGuiltyPleasures Gift Basket Giveaway!

In an effort to distract myself from the impending doom of turning 30 this month

Because I suffer from a severe shopping addiction

Everyone knows buying friends is better than making them based on genuine merit

There are giveaways, and then there are giveaways. I’ll let you guess which kind this is.

Reactions to the guilty pleasure gift basket for my brother made it clear I needed to recreate this wonder for one lucky Chipmunk. Only make it BETTER. Way better. I’ve been working on this bad boy for a while. That’s right. It’s time for the…

GoGuiltyPleasures Gift Basket Giveaway!

What? No, those are NOT tears in my eyes...

Let’s take a closer look, shall we?

Vosges Mo’s MILK Chocolate Bacon Bar

Tasting is believing.

Pop-Up Book of Celebrity Meltdowns

Who says God doesn't exist?

GoGuiltyPleasures Slap Bracelets (4)

They're fashionable AND practical.

Pop Tarts and Barnum’s Animal Crackers

You might win these...IF they last that long.

Cutting Edge on DVD

My second favorite movie of all-time. TOE PICK!!!

Wine Monkey Wine Caddy

You didn't know you needed this, did you?

AN Autograped Picture of My Dog, Uncle Jesse

He doesn't do this for just anyone, you know.

“CHIPMUNKS ROCK” Sticker

Sometimes it's important to state the obvious.

Nutella and Peanut Butter and Company’s Dark Chocolate Dreams Peanut Butter

Who needs jelly?

TALKING Mustache KEY CHAIN

I don't know how you've managed to live without this, either.

Approximate value: Priceless.

“How the fudge do I get my paws on that?” I’m sure you’re wondering. It’s easy!

How to Win the Ultimate GoGuiltyPleasures Gift Basket

1.) Link to this blog post on your blog and/or Facebook and/or Twitter account(s). (I’m @Julie_Davidoski on Twitter, and GoGuiltyPleasures on Facebook – links over on my side bar —>).

2.) Get a tattoo of my likeness (minus 30 lbs.) on a part of your body that is regularly visible, and send me a picture of your family members and coworkers admiring it.

Kidding.

The real 2.) Tell me a true story involving you and a guilty pleasure. Leave it in the comments section below, or send it to me via email. No word count restrictions, but please do remember this is a family-friendly blog.

The winner will receive all of the items above. Two runners-up will also get some guilty pleasure lovin’ – 4 GoGuiltyPleasures slap bracelets and a Vosges Mo’s milk chocolate bacon bar!

For two runners-up. Booya!

Entries will be judged by yours truly on creativity, style and my mood at the time of judging humor. Winning entries will be posted here for all to enjoy!

Deadline: Sunday, April 29, 2012 12pm EST. (So sorry, but due to shipping costs, the 1st place prize can be awarded to U.S. and Canada residents only.)

The winner will be announced on MY BIRTHDAY!!! Monday, April 30, 2012.

Who’s in?

CLICK HERE TO SEE THE WINNERS!