When It Was Still Tasty

While waiting for Maria to correct her amateurish mistake of setting the microwave to “cook” mode instead of “timer,” I have plenty of time to execute a psycho-staredown of the two danish. (Danishes? Danishi? Dani? Dictionary.com does not cite a plural form.) I stare at each chunk, imagining where on my body it will find its new home.

Let the games begin.

Minute 1: I immediately start laughing hysterically with my mouth full, a trend which, unfortunately for viewers, carries throughout the experiment.

I sputter the obvious question: “Why?”

Everybody stares at me. They don’t know. Okay. Nothing left to do now but keep eating.

So far, the double chin factor is minimal. This will change. I’m also pretty sure that is a pit stain (right), but it doesn’t show up in subsequent photos so I’ll just chalk it up to pre-gorge jitters.

For those not in-the-know about Raspberry Danish Twist, perhaps a little insight is in order.

This is the worst stuff for you in the world. It’s so bad that the serving size on the package (220 calories and 11g fat) is only 1/8 of the product. So, my two-danish minimum will cost me a whopping 3520 calories and 176 grams of fat, plus whatever’s in those donut holes. And I still plan on going for a Danish #3 victory lap. And I ate a bucket of fried chicken earlier.

In case you’re not grossed out enough, check out this phatty, fatty closeup. With any luck, the icing and jelly filling will sparkle this beautifully inside my gut, too.

Actually, maybe this isn’t danish. Maybe it’s really a cross section of a human gut that I found on Google Image Search. Only I know.

Pretty soon, I am hysterically laughing again, but this time I politely turn away so that my rapt audience doesn’t have to see The Danish Reloaded.

Here we have the beginnings of some double chin action. And this is only the first of four rows on the giant tray.

At first, the light, airy donut holes are a welcome respite from the more dense danish. Placed in between each trio of danish chunks, the donuts can be consumed in half the time, even faster when water is factored in to soften up the carb-sprinkle-glaze combo into a diarrhea-like blend.

I later realize that the donut holes actually taste much grosser than the danish, but that was well after this happy-go-lucky photo displaying my advanced ability to catch food in my mouth.

The energy in the room is so upbeat that Josie considers asking some people walking by on the street below to come watch the circus.

Then she reconsiders. “No, you’re right. This is New York City. They’d probably come up here and eat all of the danish.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Or, you know… shoot us.” I heart New York.

Still giggling, I perform a heartwarming dramatization of what not to do during Entenmann’s Challenges - namely, snort up the lines of chunks like cocaine.

I think this could be a great Anti-Drug commercial. “Getting Heavy: The Ultimate High.”

This marks the end of my positive attitude during the Challenge. Half a danish down.

This Is Getting Gross

It certainly is. Already I’m falling behind schedule - the danish is just too dense for even my oversized chompers to tear through in time for the next track.

Fortunately, the Boston College fight song “For Boston” comes on next. My confidence is instantly renewed, but I’m facing the largest chunk yet and I just can’t get through it. The song’s insanely fast pace alarms me as I struggle to keep the beat with my chewing.

“Hey, don’t feel rushed, it’s just the music,” says Maria, who is in charge of time. “However, you have five seconds,” she adds.

15 minutes: Upon further review, these donuts taste like dirty dish sponges.

26 minutes: I keel over in my chair, panting. The contents of the feast don’t seem to be traveling anywhere. It’s as if the 26 pieces found each other inside and merged back into their original form right above my ribs.

To make matters worse, Alaina, who is supposed to be transcribing quotes and significant occurrences, is loudly telling some pathetic story right into my left ear. Why won’t she shut the F up? Nobody should be having fun right now.

In other news, my double chin is coming along nicely. I also seem to have developed some juicy danish-induced zits. Small price to pay for… wait, what’s the point of this?

Someone suggests I stand up in order to increase the gullet-to-gut flow. I jump up excitedly but then almost fall down, dizzy and disoriented thanks to the excess baggage.

I look like I’m either sick of eating danish, about to be sick from eating danish, or ready to attempt the no-touch public toilet pee.

Approaching Agony

33 minutes: Standing up proves detrimental to my rhythm and progress. I‘ve been about 1.5 chunks behind the music for a while but now, on my feet, I stagger into even slower motion than I was before.

I’m so disappointed in myself that I pound my head against the wall. Kate helpfully points out the irony of my literally “hitting a wall” and gets my middle finger in return.

My disgusted but determined supporters cheer for me to get a love handle on things and soldier on. Forget the minute increments, they say. I simply MUST complete the second danish.

I’m not sure when exactly they managed to adopt this crazy philosophy of mine, but I am convinced. I gulp down some more water and resume chewing.

I should focus on taking deep breaths at this point, but my lungs have been compressed by danish and are working at 40% capacity.

At right, don’t be confused by my upturned mouth. I am actually about to cry here. There is nothing funny about force feeding yourself 60 pieces of danish, and don’t you forget it.

Chewing remains an intense struggle. Water helps, but I’m afraid that drinking too much will make me feel full. What I seem to have forgotten is that I have eaten one and a half raspberry danish, and maybe that’s what is making me feel full.

In the darkest moment of the Challenge, I attempt to spit one of the wretched donut holes into an empty danish box at my feet. I think I’m in the clear, but then a sharp observer rats me out to the photographer. Bitch.

When my jeans zipper peeks out due to my powerful girth, I undo the belt.

Ahhh. The extra waistline room is sheer relief, and even though the belt cannot be refastened, I am thrilled. I’m exploding out of my pants, I feel like I’m going to pass out, and I’m about to complete my two-danish goal! Everything’s going my way.

Actually, it’s not. I’m so far behind the music by now that I become visibly depressed. Someone places a giant box of Kleenex next to me, just in case I completely lose it.

The Power Hour CD taunts me. As I desperately attempt to swallow too big a bite, vibrations from the song “Hot in Here” pound through my new layers of fat and reverberate against my now wide-open jeans.

There is no way I can catch up now. My teeth simply refuse to move up and down until the previous bite has slithered down my goo-embalmed throat, and there’s a huge backup from there on.

I give up on the timed Power Hour and beg my audience for a few-minute halftime break.

“Halftime granted,” says Kate.

“Ooh, who’s the entertainment?” I wonder.

“You are, honey.”

In that spirit, I fall dramatically to the floor for a five-minute rest. The ground is probably cold, but I can’t tell because I’m balancing on my bulbous, now rock-solid gut.

Everyone screams at me to get up and conquer my dream. I can SO do it, they insist. I raise up halfway, groaning.

This might be the most unattractive shot in the series. My t-shirt has been inflated to balloon-like proportions, making my legs look tiny and lifeless. I look like I caught food poisoning and am lost in a desert, when in reality I’m giving myself food poisoning and am about to lose my dessert.

For the first time all night, I consider the possibility that this was a bad idea. My ribs are about to crack from the pastry pressure. All I want to do is guzzle water. One more chunk and I’ll definitely throw up. Or will I?

I had to find out.

Only five more chunks to go. Apparently this means it’s time to bring out the bug eyes.

I take back that “this is the grossest photo” comment about the floor picture. This one is so much worse. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling people I know about my new website.

Two chunks to go, and my double chin is at its most raging. It has successfully edged out the mouth as the most commanding feature of my face.

In fact, with slight inklings of yet another skin flap right under the cleft, I just might be approaching a triple.

Even though I’m so close, there is serious doubt I can fit two more danish chunks into my screaming stomach. I desperately offer the second-to-last piece to Jen, who furiously slaps me on the wrist with her beer bottle and scolds me for even trying.

Victory Lap

By the grace of God, or maybe even Mr. Entenmann himself, I complete my two-danish minimum with a tearful flourish.

“No more,” I gesture to the audience, who all nod sympathetically while silently suspecting that I’m probably gross enough to keep going.

I stare quizzically at the smaller tray. It looks paltry and weak compared to its monster counterpart, into which I am on the verge of puking.

I should just go for it. When am I going to get another chance to pile on a third raspberry danish onto two others all in the same night?

“That’s nothing - it’s like a small child’s portion,” offers Jen.

“Totally,” I return. “That’s like, only one danish. I could do that.” Yes. And if pastry porridge wasn’t edging back up my esophagus in protest, I probably could.

I carefully contemplate another chunk. Everyone agrees that I can ignore the order of the chunks and choose my own danish adventure from here on out. I select a few smaller, jelly-heavy chunks from the middle and prepare to die.

What follows is the worst display of Entenmann’s etiquette to ever grace the Upper East Side.

On second thought, I might be the first twenty-something female to ever eat danish on the Upper East Side. I think the elite NYC families kick you out for shit like this. Luckily, Bill the Builder would never do that.

During the next six agonizing minutes, I get through two small danish chunks and about half the box of Kleenex. Most people make themselves cry by slitting their wrists or thinking about their lovers’ funerals. Me, I eat danish.

What if it got to the point where my friends had to call an ambulance? How would they explain it? “We think she’s just… really full.”

Wouldn’t you be so disppointed if you went into one of those impromptu photo booths with a friend, but instead of you and your friend’s silly photos, the machine spit out four nasty pictures of me eating danish? That would be a great prank.

Now comes the dliemma: To throw it up or to hold it in? Something has to happen, now. Look at my face.

Everyone has some input here.

“You are NOT an Entenmann’s bulimic.”

“Keep eating UNTIL you throw up - better it happens naturally.”

“WHY are you doing this?”

I’ve come this far, so I go with the “keep eating” option.

Which lasts about two seconds and soon I’m stumbling into the bathroom.

But I can’t make it work. The danish seems to have solidified and gone on strike until different food is allowed in the system.

I sit Indian-style in front of the toilet and stare. Kate, who is worried, knocks on the door with another danish chunk.

“Maybe if you smell it…”

But even that doesn’t work.

That’s the thing. Even though I hate myself and my shocked stomach for allowing the Challenge to occur, I somehow still really love raspberry danish. If half the aim of this Challenge was to make me anti-pastry, this whole experience has been a total flop. I should have seen this coming.

(Okay, fine. I did see this coming. I just really wanted to try all-you-can-eat danish. I’m sorry.)

Back in the kitchen, the girls ask one more time if I can eat any more. I think my body language here speaks for itself. If not, e-mail me and I’ll let you know what I said.

They each sample one chunk and emit outbursts ranging from “Mmm” to “Ew, this tastes like coconut” to “Oh, God, I couldn’t eat more than one of these!”

It makes me a little sad as they physically and verbally attack my pastry remains. By this point my body composition is 45% Entenmann’s, 55% human, so it’s almost like they’re taking a bite out of me and then spitting it out becuase it’s too fatty.

“So, will you go jogging tomorrow?” someone asks.

I grow pensive, assessing the situation. I’m slumped in a hardwood chair, my gut pouring out of my open jeans. When I swallow, I taste dirty dish sponge and raspberry bile. I’m also pretty sure I just sprouted another neck fold. If I wasn’t fat before, I was really pushing the elastic waistband now.

So did it work? Would I do it? Would I jog the next day?

“Doubt it,” I admit.

Epilogue

(Or just “log,” if you consider the giant emission from my body after only nine hours of severe intestinal cramps that kept me up all night. It’s a good thing I’m unemployed.)

Perhaps a better question than “Why?” regarding the Entenmann’s Challenge is, “Why not?” I’m obviously bored, easily amused, and serious about food. In the end, it was better to have loved danish, overdosed, and retained the soggy chunks in a bulging spare tire than to have never played with my food at all.

The moral of this immoral story: Don’t kid yourself. Attempting to put down 60 danish chunks in an hour is stupid, pointless, and ill-advised, but expecting a true Entenmann’s fanatic to diss the danish, no matter how torturous the fesat, is downright unreasonable.