Remember Your Spirit, Bitch
I hate to disagree with Oprah Winfrey. It’s not something I often do. I think she has done more for our country than most of our government leaders combined. She is my hero, and let’s face it: she’s a hot slice of ass. Unfortunately, the Big O and I have reached our first big disagreement.
Four years ago Oprah Winfrey announced that the best macaroni and cheese in America was made right here in Philadelphia. It’s made by Delilah’s, a quaint little Southern food shop that makes its home on the 12th Street Side of the Reading Terminal Market, not the Strip Club in North Philly. I need not go into my irrational love for that building and its food again, but suffice it to say I totally *heart* the place. Being a fan of the macaroni and cheese culture (and Southern Soul food in general), I have been flirting with the idea of trying this mac and cheese for a while. Friday seemed like the perfect day. I stopped by and ordered some of “The Nation’s Best Macaroni and Cheese” as it said on the menu. As I did this, a tike, rocking tuff and stuff with her afro puffs (as in the manner of Da Brat) stepped on my saddle shoes and kicked me in the shin. Ouch. I should have taken this as a sign, a portend of doom as it was so obviously meant to be interpreted.
It was not good. It was dry and crumbly. It gave me a stomach ache. It wasn’t even close to the best mac and cheese in the city (that would be Phoebe’s), never mind in the country. Despite the severe stomach pain and the multiple trips to the bathroom that the mac and cheese inspired, there was another problem with the situation. Had I been deceived by Oprah? I would believe just about anything Oprah told me, but, I mean, this was Southern Soul Food! Girlfriend clearly knows her way around the Soul Food buffet, if you catch my drift. And I think you do. Could it be possibly that someone just slipped some money into the Harpo Inc. coffers, just for a bit of publicity. I wasn’t ready to think so poorly of Oprah. This gave me pause. This feeling of existential dread and acute abdomen pain almost made me skip happy hour. So, like any responsible young adult, I left work at 3:45 so that I could recover in time to go out for happy hour. In sum, don’t believe everything you read. Even if Oprah is the one writing it.
As an aside, regarding her stomach problems, one of my friends recently stopped eating dairy as per the recommendation of her doctor. I realized while eating lunch today (pepperoni stomboli with 3 cheeses and a ricotta filled canolli) that I would probably shoot myself first.
That Friday night after a wonderful dinner, drinks and walk in the park with KD, I met up with some law school friends at Ten Stone, one of my new favorite bars. While I was hanging out with KC, we started talking to 2 strange Indian men who engaged us in conversation on a wide spectrum of topics. We were about to leave, and they asked us not to go. The rest of our friends wanted to leave, so we were politely about to leave with them. That is, until one of the men offered to buy us drinks if we stayed. Without wasting a second thinking of things like loyalty or our own boredom, we agreed to stay. I think we actually cut him off mid-sentence. We had a steady stream of “Bloody Ho’s” (i.e. Hoegaarten and Lambic) offered to is in exchange for our conversation. This is how all nights at bars should be. I would talk to Charles Manson in a bar if he offered me a Bloody Ho. And he might. We discussed the coexistence of different economic systems in different states of India and tried to decide who would have made a better Civil Rights Leader in India: Martin Luther King, Jr. or Malcolm X. We never did come to an answer because one of the guys confessed, apropos of nothing that he “once banged a dude after doing some coke.” *Needle scratches off the record.* (Silence.) “Hey, a hole is a hole when you’re that high.” (Silence.) “But I’m not gay.” *Crickets chirping*
Then the other guy offered to cook us dinner sometime, and we were right back on board!
As long as there is no macaroni and cheese from Delilah’s, I am so there.
Four years ago Oprah Winfrey announced that the best macaroni and cheese in America was made right here in Philadelphia. It’s made by Delilah’s, a quaint little Southern food shop that makes its home on the 12th Street Side of the Reading Terminal Market, not the Strip Club in North Philly. I need not go into my irrational love for that building and its food again, but suffice it to say I totally *heart* the place. Being a fan of the macaroni and cheese culture (and Southern Soul food in general), I have been flirting with the idea of trying this mac and cheese for a while. Friday seemed like the perfect day. I stopped by and ordered some of “The Nation’s Best Macaroni and Cheese” as it said on the menu. As I did this, a tike, rocking tuff and stuff with her afro puffs (as in the manner of Da Brat) stepped on my saddle shoes and kicked me in the shin. Ouch. I should have taken this as a sign, a portend of doom as it was so obviously meant to be interpreted.
It was not good. It was dry and crumbly. It gave me a stomach ache. It wasn’t even close to the best mac and cheese in the city (that would be Phoebe’s), never mind in the country. Despite the severe stomach pain and the multiple trips to the bathroom that the mac and cheese inspired, there was another problem with the situation. Had I been deceived by Oprah? I would believe just about anything Oprah told me, but, I mean, this was Southern Soul Food! Girlfriend clearly knows her way around the Soul Food buffet, if you catch my drift. And I think you do. Could it be possibly that someone just slipped some money into the Harpo Inc. coffers, just for a bit of publicity. I wasn’t ready to think so poorly of Oprah. This gave me pause. This feeling of existential dread and acute abdomen pain almost made me skip happy hour. So, like any responsible young adult, I left work at 3:45 so that I could recover in time to go out for happy hour. In sum, don’t believe everything you read. Even if Oprah is the one writing it.
As an aside, regarding her stomach problems, one of my friends recently stopped eating dairy as per the recommendation of her doctor. I realized while eating lunch today (pepperoni stomboli with 3 cheeses and a ricotta filled canolli) that I would probably shoot myself first.
That Friday night after a wonderful dinner, drinks and walk in the park with KD, I met up with some law school friends at Ten Stone, one of my new favorite bars. While I was hanging out with KC, we started talking to 2 strange Indian men who engaged us in conversation on a wide spectrum of topics. We were about to leave, and they asked us not to go. The rest of our friends wanted to leave, so we were politely about to leave with them. That is, until one of the men offered to buy us drinks if we stayed. Without wasting a second thinking of things like loyalty or our own boredom, we agreed to stay. I think we actually cut him off mid-sentence. We had a steady stream of “Bloody Ho’s” (i.e. Hoegaarten and Lambic) offered to is in exchange for our conversation. This is how all nights at bars should be. I would talk to Charles Manson in a bar if he offered me a Bloody Ho. And he might. We discussed the coexistence of different economic systems in different states of India and tried to decide who would have made a better Civil Rights Leader in India: Martin Luther King, Jr. or Malcolm X. We never did come to an answer because one of the guys confessed, apropos of nothing that he “once banged a dude after doing some coke.” *Needle scratches off the record.* (Silence.) “Hey, a hole is a hole when you’re that high.” (Silence.) “But I’m not gay.” *Crickets chirping*
Then the other guy offered to cook us dinner sometime, and we were right back on board!
As long as there is no macaroni and cheese from Delilah’s, I am so there.
posted by ZRW @ 3:08 PM
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