Crazy big news!

A month or so ago, I was piddling away evening hours on Facebook when something caught my eye in a big way—Urbanspoon, the leading online local restaurant guide (and a resource I use religiously), was seeking bloggers for the official Urbanspoon blog.  What!  A crazy excitement washed over me, and with blazing eyes and a butterfly filled belly I began furiously typing an application letter.  I introduced myself and my blog and my deep passion for carbohydrates.  I wrote about my love of Urbanspoon and how I am both a long-time user and contributor on the site.  I flaunted my Urbanspoon Prime status, and even though I couldn’t visually emphasize that elite status with sprightly jazz fingers, the page was sparkly enough to imply them.

That was the easy part.

Then the hysteria began to diminish and the self-doubt speak started flowing.  Was anyone even going to look at this thing?  There had to be thousands of applicants…  What am I doing?  My shoulders hunched, but I trudged onward and began to plead.  If selected, I promised not only homemade chocolate chip cookies but also a 5-course Italian dinner, complete with my famous tomato basil bruschetta and Amazeball’s meatballs (of course, famous here is used in relative terms).  I sat and stared at the blinking cursor on the screen.  It didn’t seem like enough–it wasn’t enough.  I had no choice but to level with them, so I wrote “If given the opportunity to be a blogger for Urbanspoon, I’d probably poop my pants (in a good way, if that’s possible).”

Then I emailed it off, poop reference and all.

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The Banana Party (plus links to 7 great banana recipes)

Back in college, I would often carry a banana in the front pocket of my pea coat, like a yellow edible pocket square.  This was back before energy bars were all the rage, and my banana was not only all-natural but also quirky and cute and totally college (trust me).  I was always prepared with a snack on hand, should I have to miss lunch for a study date (or a nap in the student center).  To this day, I still open my banana from the bottom (the end without the stem), just like my mom.

Try it.  Thank me later.

Recently, my friend Vanessa and I received emails from Dole asking if we’d like to co-host a banana party.  You heard me.  A banana party.

Obviously, we said yes.

dole banana party (4 of 24)

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The death of ice cream.

There are frozen yogurt shops everywhere.  Every plaza, shopping center, and mall has one–literally within feet of each other.  Recently, a friend asked me where he could find good ice cream in town.  I told him, “heck if I know.”  All I can find around here is frozen yogurt.  It disgusts me.  Hipsters across America are killing ice cream one ounce of fro-yo at a time.

It’s true.

I had my first frozen yogurt experience last year after moving to Charlotte.  I fell right into the fro-yo trap.  It’s healthy?  Shut up!  Let’s fill this pint-sized bowl to the top!  Since it’s healthy it won’t hurt to try a little spoonful of each of the 37 varieties of toppings.  Heath, sprinkles, Oreos, peanut butter sauce, cookie dough bites, butter finger, bits of cake, a hunk of brownie, and a swirl of hot fudge (if you’re lucky enough to find a fro-yo shop that carries it), and since we’re being healthy here, let’s throw on some blueberries and mochi (even though I have no clue what the heck mochi is, but it’s trendy so it must be good for me… right?!).

I fell hard.  It wasn’t quite love, but it was definitely topping lust.  I carried my overflowing bowl to a table outside and surveyed my masterpiece in the sunlight.  I took my first bite–it was all toppings, and it was undeniably amazing.  Then, I took a second bite, making sure to get a good yogurt-to-toppings ratio.  I sat there, with a mouth full of god knows what, confused, wondering if I had, in fact, just paid money for the stuff.  As it melted in my mouth, I sketched out a mental list of pros and cons.  In the pro column, it was cold, just like ice cream.  And….?  Was that it?  I felt empty.  IT felt empty.  There were so many ice crystals that I was certain the fro-yo was freezer burnt.  It was just… wrong.  Yogurt is smooth and creamy, so why wasn’t the frozen version?  It didn’t take long for the eater’s remorse to kick in.  I realized that all those toppings I’d piled on had substantially negated the whole “healthy” concept, and, worst of all, it wasn’t even good.

That evening, I put frozen yogurt on my HATE list (right after eggplant, olives, and Miracle Whip).

A few weeks back, my friends Jaci and Tim came to visit.  We were skipping down the sidewalk giddy from laughter (due to some especially good wine at Wooden Vine), when Jaci said something along the lines of “oooh we should get fro-yo tonight!”  I grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop, all the happiness draining from my face, and said, “I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened, Jaci.”  She just stared at me, as if she expected my skin to turn green and my muscles to rip through my clothes hulk-style as I pounded my chest and howled painfully toward the sky.

I can be scary sometimes.  Just ask Tim.

Some people make the fro-yo health argument, stating frozen yogurt is better because it’s low fat.  This is true, but here’s the thing:  frozen yogurt is not health food–it’s full of sugar (having more grams per serving than ice cream, without factoring in any toppings) and thus it is a treat, just like ice cream.  It’s also important to note that the fat content in ice cream helps to slow down the body’s absorption of sugar.  If I’m going to have a treat (and trust me I’m going to) I want it to be the real deal–one scoop of rich, creamy, decadent ice cream.

Come on people!  We need to band together and save ice cream in America.  Who’s with me?

*If you are lactose intolerant please disregard the rant above.

 

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Last day to vote!

Hello readers!  Fervent Foodie has been nominated for Charlotte’s best Food Blog in the City Web Awards.  Many of you have already voted for my blog, and to you I say THANK YOU!  Voting ends Monday July 23rd at 10am, so if you are inclined to vote please head on over to the awards website (and a big THANK YOU to you as well!).  You can vote up to four times (one vote for each Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and Google+).

Thank you for your support and for reading my blog!

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I hate birthdays.

I hate birthdays.

Every year around my birthday I find myself falling into an unavoidable slump.  It’s not like it used to be back when I was in my early twenties and we celebrated birth-weeks instead of days.  Back then you were something special on your birthday–the queen of the night, the damsel to be doted on–and simply uttering “it’s my birthday” got you on the VIP list.

It’s even harder to compare today’s birthdays with birthdays of my childhood.  Back then birthdays were the highlight of the entire year, just after Christmas and right before Halloween.  In the weeks leading up to my thirteenth birthday, I was hit with a bout of insomnia.  I was most literally too excited to sleep.  I would sit in my bedroom, sweating profusely in the mid-summer heat of the night, fantasizing about my impending slumber party.  I’d think about what I would wear and the games that we’d play.  I’d triple count the number of friends who had rsvp’d.  I’d estimate the birthday loot I’d rake in by multiplying each family member times their average historical gift.  Then I’d visualize all the new school clothes I could buy with the money, and how cool I’d be rolling into 8th grade in a new pair of wide leg J’nco’s and contrasting Billabong T.  My stomach ached with excitement, and when I could think of nothing else to plan nor additional calculations to perform, I resorted to putting together thousand-piece puzzles to pass the hours.  Each dawn I’d pull out my notepad with my hand-drawn countdown calendar and scratch off another day.  Twenty seven days down, nine days to go.  Only nine more days!

Birthdays aren’t like that any more.  If I’m being honest here, and trust me I am, there’s a part of me that wants birthdays to be special like they once were.  These dark thoughts leave me feeling silly, guilty even, for wanting something so childish.  Birthdays aren’t special like they used to be because I’m a grown ass woman now.  Now birthdays consist of working (like a responsible adult), eating a sensible lunch, and dissuading conversations that start with “oh my gosh, it’s your birthday?” or “have any big plans for your birthday?” and especially “soooo, do you feel any older?”  All of this unusual attention inevitably makes me feel devoid because no matter what I’m doing to punctuate the day of my birth it’s not enough.  It’s no slumber party with 8 of my closest friends, it’s no free-shot-filled night on the town, and it’s most certainly no week-long celebration where “because it’s my birthday” serves as my steadfast mantra.

Today is my birthday.

Today is my birthday, and I am not this day’s princess nor am I this day’s queen.

Today is my friggin’ birthday.

Where’s my chocolate cake?

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