Thanks, sis! Meg and Dee went to Art Chicago last week and sent me some digital missives of the complex carbohydrates they thought would really REACH me.

“Heyyyy! Welcome to DR!”

Ugh. I miss Steak ‘n’ Shake.

Life’s eternal questions, embodied just as they should be in Wonka-bar form.

Here’s a still life featuring butter (a.k.a. my life).

These cupcakes actually do look dangerous. Did the icing factory run out of color OR WHAT?

Says Meg: “yes - those balloons are attached to that girls hair… hehe”

Dee Barrett, who was consulted for permission to post these photos merely as a courtesy (because I was going to post them anyway), gave the OK:

NO PROBLEMS HERE.

And in the spirit of indulgence….indulge me and watch these!

May 2, 2008 — ‘DWTS Talk’: Bye bye, Shannequin
May 5, 2008 — ‘Survivor Talk’ cameo! I’m a medic. Of course.

But boy oh boy can I talk or what? So OMG PLEASE CONTINUE TO WATCH THESE EW.COM VIDEOS. Lots of new ones are up on the most self-centered web page ever — DWTS Talk, Idolatry, and me interviewing cubicle stud Maksim Chmerkovskiy again. He keeps it real, unlike Snuffy.

But…Friend of DR Ben LaBolt has me beat because Katie Couric interviewed HIM. (at 03:25) [CBS.com]

This shit is STILL hanging on the door to our garage in Illinois. My optimistic poem makes me die inside a bit, superficially because of how thin the rainbow’s red stripe is compared to all the others. Not to mention the misplaced comma after “rainbow.” Just kidding! Sort of. I really do think these two things every time. But it’s not like I can’t handle it.

I much prefer my younger sister’s “poem,” at left. Very spoken-word. Exclamatory. WAY cooler to perform. We should totally stage a slam!

(Just tried. Will post video entitled “Slammin’ It!” or “All in the Slamily” later. Probably not.)

Oh tiny, not-yet-disillusioned young Annie… where the F is “this rainbow”? I’ll spend my life trying to find it because you said it was there. You little fucker.

And I should have showered.

Photo is from two weeks ago. Keepin’ it fresh!

They’re open. Go in.

Rad ’80s font greatly appreciated.

I spent the week in Illinois. You know what that means!

Here’s another rare find along Chicago’s Interstate 55. This highway sure does have a highly developed sense of humor. (One of its other features, a subliminal advertisement for California Pizza Kitchen, has playfully toyed with my heart since I was wee.)

I think I swerved across three lanes while attempting that photo, thus ironically increasing my chances of “getting plowed.” This site is so gonna come up on google searches for “getting plowed”. Ugh. Yes!

Then there’s this:

The Interstate 294 shot I always wanted to remember to take and now I have. I rule! It’s an Entenmann’s FACTORY! I’ve always missed it because it pops up right before O’Hare and I’m always busy rummaging through my candy stash for the flight or realizing I left my passport in a different car or something. I’d usually make some sort of exasperated sound, like “Enhhhh!” to which my concerned parents would be like “What?!” And then I’d keep silent, because “I just missed taking a f—ing photo of the Entenmann’s factory — AGAIN” isn’t exactly how I like to be remembered, post-visit.

Kidding! Look, mom and dad! Entenmann’s factory! Remember me?

A few weeks ago, my sister and I ate at The Cheesecake Factory in Chicago. We stood in their nasty waiting area (the walls resemble intestinal tracts) for half an hour on a Sunday night. We’re insane.

Anyway, between us, we ordered three staggeringly large (because they all are) menu items. The first was the spinach/artichoke/but mostly cheese dip. It was yummy in the way that a deviled egg is satisfying a few hours before the main Thanksgiving meal. Yes, you want the egg — but were steaming slices of carved meat and stuffing to be plunked down in front of you, you’d toss it over your shoulder without even looking.

Such was the scene at TCF, as round 2 (Cajun Chicken Littles, with garlic mashed, veggies (gross) and two dipping sauces) swooped in for the kill on our massive table that should have seated at least six.

I call this shot… “Abandoned Chip.”

You want it.

Damnit, Annie! There’s so much freakin’ dip left! Looking at it now makes me crazy.

Have you ever done this?

Take a look at my new favorite meal of all time: the Sweet ‘n’ Savory French Toast at Southport Grocery in Chicago’s Lake View neighborhood. It’s french toast topped with gruyere cheese (whaaa?) and somewhat crispy ham with no fat on it, served with organic maple valley syrup on the side. The syrup came “from the grocery,” which in this place seems to be a very big deal. I was almost afraid to ask for a second little cup of it becuase I thought they might make me buy the whole $14 bottle.

You have no idea how good this breakfast is. It might not sound good to you just written out in words. It didn’t to me, on the menu. I would normally not order french toast in a restaurant, but my dining partner at SG a few weeks prior ordered it then. I sampled a bite so as not to be rude (and because I knew his generosity stemmed from his wanting a bite or more of my egg-laden bruschetta/crostini concoction, which was okay but not something to write in a shitty blog about. I don’t know why we didn’t just switch plates).

Whoa. I spent the rest of that morning jealously salivating over — or shall I say savoring — the memory of that bite. I couldn’t even focus on conversation, much less my own meal, after getting a taste of this miracle. I think the jealousy overcame me to the point where I was downright nasty to the person who had had the good fortune of ordering it for himself. There’s no way of being sure, because I don’t really remember. I was out of my mind. That bite had been with me throughout the past three weeks, lifting me up during sour times, gently calling me back to the Midwest for another round. I made it, Sweet ‘n’ Savory French Toast! I came back to you. Are we in love? Is the feeling mutual? Call or write.
*

I often get a very tense feeling when a meal I know I’m going to enjoy more than anything else that day is about to be served to me. It’s almost like I don’t want to receive it. I want to have ordered it, to have waited for it, to have it be on its way, but I don’t actulally want it set down because at that point, it’s practically gone. The food’s there, but the suspense, thrill, and yearning have all vanished by that point. The plate in front of me is just a given. It, too, will go away, and all too quickly. There’s something profoundly sad in that.

I felt this great depression while eating for the second time at Southport Grocery. I wanted to take each bite of the Sweet ‘n’ Savory French Toast, but I also didn’t want to because then whatever little percentage of it that I managed to load onto the fork would be gone forever. I mean, I could come back, but not, like, for the next meal. They’d think I was weird. I’d have to wait at least a few days. Maybe one day. I don’t know. It’s too much to think about.

I always envision a huge, looming, color-coded pie chart when I’m eating one of my favorite things. Like I said above, the moment right before it’s placed in front of me is the happiest moment. At that point, the pie chart is not a chart at all but just a benign, bunny-yellow circle: a big, smiling, hungry face with one of those wagging tongues that looks like it’s about to slurp up something delicious. With each bite, not only do portions of the smiley face get taken over by a different, gloomier color (midnight blue… perhaps thundercloud gray), but the smile slowly but surely turns into a frown. At the meal’s pausing point, usually somewhere right in the middle (also called the “breather,” “timeout,” or “period of solemn reflection”), I imagine the face having a completely horizontal line for a smile. It’s not a grimace — not yet — but there is no joy left. It’s the “look what you’ve done to me” face a sullen teenager might shoot at the parent who never gave him any attention. I almost consider not eating any more so as not to produce the inevitable downwards-drooping smile line. All of this makes it significantly difficult for me to find joy in the eating process.

And then I do anyway!

You know, if I hadn’t taken Tylenol P.M. nearly three hours ago, I would be totally up for creating graphics of the meal-progression pie charts, thundercloud gray and all, but as it is I’m starting to drool and didn’t even notice, and would be surprised if I even stay awake long enough to run upstairs, wait 10 mintues for dial-up to work, and get this posted. Right now I sound like a raving lunatic, so maybe falling asleep for once would not be a bad thing.

Chicago fans: Anyone watch The Amazing Race? Tonight’s series finale featured the Water Tower and (Dad, brace yourself…) a Gino’s East deep dish pizza-eating challenge! I suddenly miss the Midwest.

I personally felt the contestants didn’t treat the Chicago-style pizza with the reverence it deserves. At one point, eating disorder spokesmodel Kendra (right, gagging), who was fighting off her gag reflex the whole time she was eating, declared, “This is disgusting.” No, Kendra. You are disgusting for saying such a wretched and unforgiveable thing. I wish that, as an added twist, Kendra’s cut of the million-dollar prize came in the form of a gift certificate only redeemable at Gino’s East. She’d probably turn it down.

I really need to start reading more.