Revolution of the Resolution

I generally despise New Year's Resolutions. I start strong and end weak. More appropriately, WEEK. Specifically, week three, of January. That's my end point.

Take, for example, weight loss.

January is generally a great time to lose weight. I've consumed at least five pounds of sugar and am sick of all the feasting. Lightning up the food load actually not only makes sense, it also feels good. So, strong starts in this department are easy.

My biggest problem comes around the end of the month/beginning of February. It's called "Super Bowl Party".

Even if I've managed to make it through January to this huge excuse for pigging out, I KNOW I am going to blow it during the football game. The smorgasbord of bad food is just epic. It has to be when you ask people to bring a dish to pass. Because everybody thinks the exact, same thing as they figure out what to bring "What have I been avoiding, on my diet, all month, that I am CRAVING?" Then, they MAKE IT and BRING IT.

So you have junk like chips and queso, mini-cupcakes, little smoked sausages covered with gelatinous* sauce, bundt cake with Kahlua drizzle, crescent roll pinwheels with cream cheese/Parmesan filling, and cookies, cookies, cookies.

The list is endless. It is delicious. And it is completely fattening.

And the beer? Did I mention the assortment of beer? Apparently, those who gave up drinking for New Year's think everyone wants to fall off the wagon with them.

Now, there have been years that, for various reasons, we haven't attended a Super Bowl party. You'd think that would help. But, actually, that's worse. Because my family then thinks we should have all the accouterments from the party we aren't attending right here at ground zero. And quantities shouldn't be limited.

And that means leftovers. Which get eaten over the course of several days, instead of one huge gluttony-fest and then back to normalcy.

So, I head into January fully aware of the big, fat obstacle looming in the distance. And I'm going to have to decide which choice is the lesser of two evils: party at home and deal with leftovers or attend a party and eat my weight in cheese products.

Or, maybe, instead of the lesser of two evils, which creates the lesser of my thighs?


*Yet, oh so tasty!!

It's the Holiday Season

A good friend of mine sends me the following commentary: "I have come to the conclusion that I need to buy a new belt. A new belt that's a little bit longer. I am sort of OK with that."

I feel her pain. I've worked hard to gain the weight I've put on in the last three months. Cripe. I've EARNED it.

As soon as I finish reading my friend's message, I sprint out the door. Carpool time!

As I am backing out, I notice the gate opener is not in its usual place. I search the other visor, the console and the passenger seat. No controller.

I jam the car into "Park", run back into the house and shout "MIKE! Do you know where the gate opener is?"

His response: "In the seat?!" The answer is more than laced with sarcasm.

Not one to back down in the sarcasm-response department I yell back: "So you mean to tell me my butt* has gotten so big that I couldn't feel the remote when I sat on it?" My voice creates a nervous, pseudo-laugh as I yell this.

Response from somewhere in the bowels of the house: "YUP."

I don't have time to argue the point about him thinking my butt is big, given his response.

Now back in the car, remote returned to its upright and locked position, I listen to a news report. I hear that a man has been arrested for pinching the butt of a lady in line ahead of him. Problem is, the posterior he chose to squeeze is attached to a female cop. IN UNIFORM. Um, DUH?!?!

To this very odd little person who needs an education on uniforms I say: Mister? If you feel the need to pinch a little arse, you really should pick someone like me.

Someone whose bottom is so buried in fat that it has surpassed the ability to feel the remote I just sat on.

To my belt-challenged friend: I salute you, sister of the traveling Oreo ball! I feel your pain during this calorie-laden, fat-inducing season. And I'm 100% behind** any ideas we might come up with at lunch tomorrow*** to get control of our wayward bodies in 2010.

But we must be quick--BEFORE someone decides to get all fresh with me and my larger-than-life hiney.



*Not the word I used. I'm attempting to tame the cussing beast and am starting with the written word. Before it costs me quarters. Starting in a measly 15 days.

**Pun only partially intended.

***Dessert not optional. It's Christmastime, by golly!

Christmas Goodie Goodness

There is only one time of the year that I care about The Dallas Morning News. It's when the food section publishes the annual winners of the Christmas goodies contest.

Last year, I snagged a recipe that looked so simple I figured it couldn't compete with the likes of the highly-esteemed bourbon ball. I assumed that I'd make these things once and we'd all go "OK. They're OK." Then, I'd purge the recipe from my memory and we'd move on to someone else's recipe.

I was wrong.

I had a grasp on a piece of newspaper history that would become contender for my second favorite Christmas cookie. Who knew?

Like the bourbon ball, which still is my BCFFL*, this thing isn't "technically" a cookie. It's more a cracker sandwich cleverly disguised as a cookie.

I think this treat probably has issues similar to guys who think they are girls but who have a penis so they are technically dudes. They're all topsy-turvy. So's my cookie-thingy.

The recipe is deceptively simple: smear a cracker with peanut butter, slap another cracker on top, chill for a bit, then completely cover with chocolate. If you can resist trying them, allow them to set for a bit before munching down.

Yeah. Don't doubt it. It's that simple. And, OH SO DELISH.

I don't even quite know what to call them. I've long since lost the actual piece of paper the recipe was on. And they are hard to describe.

"Chocolate-covered-peanut-butter-sandwiches" calls to mind those heinous pb crackers that can be found in vending machines from the Jersey shores to Vancouver. I think, along with Twinkies, they have a half-life of a cockroach. In fact, I think cockroaches have been around a shorter period of time than some of the vended PB crackers I've eaten.

"Peanut-butter-crackers-covered-in-choclate" is just too much to say.

"A-little-slice-of-Heaven" sounds too Paula Deen. She's a cutie. But, good gracious, everyone would think I incorporated a full stick of butter. Paula, honey? Please be a little less Southern. For just a cotton-pickin' minute. God Bless You.

So, for now, I'll continue describing them as "They taste like a good Peanut Butter Twix. Not the kind actually made by the Mars Corporation**."

And, if you have a brilliant idea, let me know.

I'll gladly put my thing-a-majiggy down, lick the chocolate off my fingers, and write down your suggestion.


*Best Cookie Friend For Life. You should get one, too.

**Which suck. Don't take my word for it. Pony up 75 cents and try a taste test. My funky Christmas recipe will eat that Twix for LUNCH, I tell you.

Bourbon Balls

One of my favorite memories of Christmas is the bourbon balls Mom would make every year. To this day, I carry on the tradition and eat my weight in them pre-Christmas. Then, around Christmas day when we visit my parents, I enjoy the b.b's Mom made for her cookie platter. I, basically, would not think to pass up the opportunity.

The ingredients are simple: ground pecans and vanilla wafers, confectioner's sugar, and a half cup of whiskey. Mix, shape into balls, add a generous coating of MORE confectioner's sugar and, walah, a bourbon ball is born.

UMMMMM. Sugar, cookies and liquor all in one place. The pecans? Strangely added. Probably by some thoughtful German who reasoned that the little protein kick would be good for the hangover you'd develop if you ate too many of them*.

I started eating bourbon balls about the time I could really enunciate "ball" and had the lung capacity to scream for several minutes if they weren't proffered. I don't remember anybody in my family telling me I couldn't have them. Today, people would be calling CPS and screaming child abuse. Thank GOODNESS I am not a child of the 00's.

Yet, interestingly, last night at our party, where these little jewels were served, I found myself discouraging the under ten set from eating them. None of the quite respectful children in my house asked "Why not?". But, if they had, I would have cleverly told them they were made with "fire water" and they wouldn't like them. Truthfully, I just don't want to waste a single one on younguns would can't appreciate a true delicacy.

Christmas has arrived here. In the form of a lowly bourbon ball. OH, the joy.

*I speak from experience. Sad, sad experience.

I'm Thinking...

I just defined oxymoron last night when I was eating strawberry cheesecake and derby pie covered with caramel/chocolate sauce and walnuts while simultaneously watching an episode of THE BIGGEST LOSER.

I'm hoping I burned some calories lifting the fork to and from my mouth.