This happened yesterday :(

The resemblance is uncanny. But my accidental guacamole-on-carpet map is way better than this crap graphic (which, I am aware, is not of the Galapagos Islands). My terrain’s got elevation. Texture. Layers. Flavaaaaaaa. I can’t believe no artist has thought of this yet. It is so much better than shit on a canvas.

Who wants to come with me to Stray Dime Island, the less lush, more industrial, pro-capitalism offshoot of the Guacapagos? (Can you spot it? The whole thing is very Magic Eye, which I’m usually anti-, but whatever.)

Ha! Just realized the dime is like the “scale” portion of my map. I think of everything!

Witness the fried calamari from Nine-D on Court Street. To help the pieces avoid growing soggy and disgusting, someone bothered to pierce a slit in the plastic cover. The calamari stays hot, and yet moisture can escape. They’ll never know how much I appreciate the effort. Until I print this out and stick it under the door tomorrow morning.

Also dug the moderate, equally distributed steamage on the mango fish entree.

And you know what? Generally top-notch packaging all-around. The ridges are the kicker. They don’t need to be there, in that pattern. But there they are. Like his teeth:

“You must be mad. Have a great meal!”

Guess who’s back? Me.

Over the last month, I’ve taken loads of unnecessary photos in the midwest (Michigan and Chicago). Most were of food. A lot were of Chicken McNuggets. With a car to myself, I could have gone anywhere and purchased rare, impressive, and photogenic meals, but instead I ended up lining up nuggets and White Castle burgers in what I’d almost venture to call “artistic” settings.

Sack of Ten

Discussion questions:

1. Why only ten?

2. Artistic?

3. If we can’t actually see Slider 8, can we be sure it exists?

4. Sliders 5, 7, and 10 are upside down. Is this significant? Was it intentional? Why or why not?

5. What, ultimately, is Annie trying to say in this piece? Is the photo about burgers, or is it about longing? Construct an expository paragraph containing the word “gurgle” that explains your choice.

After nearly a decade of ambivalence and/or not caring about White Castle, I’ve finally decided I’m in love with it. There are no exceptions. You couldn’t throw anything on that menu at me that I wouldn’t catch in my mouth and enjoy, including the new Hidden Valley Chicken Rings (right, on my All Reheated, All The Time conveyor belt, with a tiny bit of Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust pie pokin’ its way into the frame… with a bite out of it… I’m so gross). Whitey’s also carries Tobasco Chicken Rings, which I’m guessing just means thousands of tiny red flakes instead of green.

The Chicken Rings should strike any normal person as nasty. Me, I’m impressed. Shaping disgusting chicken innards into small circles, then deep frying and caking them in ten times more artificial flavoring than would ever be called for. Admit it: It’s a wonderful idea!

(Remember when Tobias cries out “It’s a wonderful restaurant!” at Burger King on Arrested Development? That’s in my top ten.)

I’m a firm believer that once you find the perfect consistency for a certain food, you’ve got to make sure that, if possible, you get to eat it in that exact state every time. Case in point: I discovered that baking the Sliders at 450 degrees for about five minutes — even if they’re already fresh from the restaurant, “fresh” and “restaurant” being understandably shaky terms in this case — produces my favorite Slider consistency. The bun, which is so bulbous and shiny and expertly shaped, like an infant’s head, looks and tastes better when it’s charred a bit, at least on the top. That way, you get some crunch at the very beginning of the bite and then once you’re through the “shell” (similar to the candy coating of an M&M) you get to chew the rest of the still-soft inner bun. Mmmm.

Beware of the tongue-singeing cheese! It’ll getcha. But it’s worth it, because later you’ll be doing something else, think “why does my tongue kill?” and remember, fondly, “Ahhh, White Castle.” And you’ll probably be on the toilet.

All of the above is to say that even though I’m back in Brooklyn, when I don’t know what to write about in the next couple of weeks, I’m just going to do throwbacks to my long-ass vacation. They’ll come out of nowhere, like cool weather and the new Pepperidge Farm Rainbow Goldfish. Watch out!

Behold my sandwich from Bagel Hole in Park Slope. Mmm… mayo.

Since it took seemingly forever to make, I busied myself by reading the obligatory PR wall. Every bagel store in New York seems to have a wall like this, featuring articles in all sorts of NYC papers about why their particular style of bagel is the tastiest or most authentic. What’s hilarious is that even though each store makes a different bagel, there’s always at least one posted article claiming that this store’s specimen is the best. Which consequently means there have been, like, thousands of articles written about bagels. Which is funny. Bagel journalism is certainly one of the more democratic sub-fields. I should go into chips journalism. I’d be a hit.

Anyway, I learned all about how and why Bagel Hole’s bagels were harder, denser, and smaller than other NYC bagels-come-lately. Good to know, I guess, but mostly I just wanted to avoid eye contact with the three bored employees behind the counter staring at me like they’d never seen a giant girl wearing a bandana before. Dudes. It’s called refusing to shower just to go to the bagel store/hole. Get used to it.

So I was intrigued by what I assumed would be a tiny little bagel sandwich. I unwrapped it and thought was plenty big. Right? But the issue here is that lettuce. Would you look at that beautifully shredded lettuce? You could lose yourself in a delighted counting exercise of those shreds. I did.

What a glorious surprise. I love lettuce like this. It makes you supremely aware that you’re eating lettuce. That someone took the time to grate teeeeny strips of lettuce for your sandwich. That you’re a genius for ordering it in the first place. Clean and crisp. LETTUCE!

Or maybe that’s just me.

For fun, try singing “1-800 L-E-T-T-U-C-E” like those women from Jersey (I’m assuming) who sing “1-800 M-A-T-T-R-E-S” in the mattress commercial.

I didn’t really need to specify “in the mattress commercial.” It was just to prove to you that I know how to spell mattress, even if the jingle doesn’t.

(The runner-up title for this post was “DR hits an all-time low.”)

I went to Boston this weekend and apparently forgot I owned a camera about an hour in. Our takeout food must have arrived and completely clouded my brain with its deliciousness and low cost. My friends also had an on-demand karaoke channel. That threw me a little off.

I was most excited to be able to order frozen yogurt with “mix-ins” again. This trend seems to be everywhere in the city, not just the neighborhood I went to school in. I’m not talking about that shit you can find at Coldstone Creamery, an establishment which is steadily winning the war it recently waged against all the cool neighborhoods in Manhattan. No, in Boston, certain delis and pizzerias offer about a pint of frozen yogurt or ice cream infiltrated with slivers of your snacks of choice (my favorite combo as an undergrad was York peppermint patty + Oreo) for $3.50… for no specific reason.

The yogurt and mix-ins list, usually on the back page of a fold-out menu, makes me so happy. It’s something so random and unnecessarily gratuitous, but whose existence I appreciate so much. Like olive oil on the table right when you sit down, or the movie Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead. This yogurt/mix-in phenomenon comprises a significant portion of my affection for Boston. I love Boston! So I must like the yogurt a whole lot.

Anyway, I did take two photos and found them both worth sharing.

My friend E. Barrett (no relation) and I hit yet another notch in the “we have to be related” game. It turns out we both keep our digital cameras not in practical, reasonably priced camera cases, but in single pieces of winter handwear. Hers is a colorful mitten that would be well-suited for a giant. Mine is a stretchy purple glove that, as I’m demonstrating in the photo, “expands and contracts with the gadget.” That sounds gross.

Because I’ve received countless taunts from various “friends” about my gloved camera, I had previously assumed that the stashing of expensive electronics in handwear was so delightfully nuts that only I could think of it. I was incredibly psyched to be wrong. Look at us. We’re so proud. We actually look like we’re imploring you to find us quirky and cute. “Hey, guys, check us out! You can’t make shit like this up!”

Another reason we might be related: E.’s mom sends her a lot of ridiculous stuff in the mail. E. and M. were kind enough to pose with two such items: a gigantic calendar and a tiny red computer button that says “PANIC.” These roommates have actually had discussions about how the other Mrs. Barrett only sends her daughter objects that fall into the categories of “oversized” or “miniature.” I find this amazing.

Something else is amazing. Look at the three letters in between my two friends. Indeed.