Fine Dining

This must by my first post about food, ever. Anyway, was just commenting on a friend’s pic of a some pie on Facebook—can’t link to it, but the Instagram’d version’s here—and realized that the reason I have yet to try keylime pie (that’s what the pie in question was), even though I promised myself to after it looked halfway-good in Million Dollar Baby/on Clint Eastwood’s fork is that new food terrifies me like little else. Seriously. Meaning: new restaurants? I’ll go, but there’ll be some kicking, some inside-screaming, and just hours or pre-dinner dread. I mean, it’s never as bad I imagine it’s going to be—there’s usually something nearly-recognizable on the menu (the other night? it was what I called rabbit hushpuppies, as that’s what they were)—but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be better about this next time. I’m going to be just the same, actually. Here’s what I look for, every city I go to: That’s from . . . somewhere I was last week. Probably Texas. Anyway, anybody remember that episode of Married with Children, where Peggy or one of the Bundys wins a prize that means Mr. Jupiter—the healthiest dude in the land of Fox—comes and lives with them for a week? That’s always been a touchstone for me. I mean, the fact that Mr. Jupiter, living on the Bundy diet, he dies during that week. And this is what the Bundy household thrives on (this only works if you consider their lifestyle to be ‘thriving,’ of course). Example: I’m in high school,  . . . → → →

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