But I keep hearing and seeing things about dangerous chemicals lurking in the bags. Or how whatever-the-flavoring-is is soaked in death. Is swearing off of microwave popcorn being dramatic?

Who cares? It’s a shit-load cheaper than buying pre-bagged popcorn. Not to mention, I can flavor it however the hell I want to. Cinnamon? Do it. Cayenne pepper? Yes, please. Sea salt? Bring it on.

So if you’re a popcorn lover (as opposed to a popcorn fighter?), here’s the easy way to get popping.

• In a small pot (don’t you dare ask me what constitutes small, I couldn’t tell a quart from a pint to save my life … let’s say quart), pour in a tablespoon or less of oil. I don’t give a shit what kind of oil you use. I like olive, but you may want to use grape. Just use something that doesn’t burn. What won’t burn? I’m not a real, trained chef. How would I know?
• Smear it around with whatever spice you want. Then dump in like a tablespoon of popcorn. Don’t do more than two! That crap expands like nuts. Oh, and stir the kernels around in the oil a bit to get them all coated and shiny.
• Cover the pot with aluminum foil and poke lots of holes in it. You want to keep popcorn from jumping out, but you also want steam to escape. If the steam stays in, you get soggy popcorn. No one likes soggy popcorn.
• Turn on the heat. My stove gores from 1 (low) to 10 (high). I use 8.
• LISTEN! It’ll take a minute or two to start popping depending on your stove (mine’s electric, you gas people are on your own). When the kernels start jumping, just move the pot around and shake them all up. That way they won’t burn and stick to the bottom.
• When it’s done, it’ll stop popping. It won’t take long.

Now enjoy the best popcorn ever. Let me know how it goes.

I eat them like they’re the last thing I’m ever going to eat. And they’re even better partnered with bananas.

So on set today when I saw the bag of Emerald’s Breakfast On The Go–Chocolate Cherry Blend with Coco Roast Almonds, I about shat myself.

I mean granola, cherries, chocolate, and my favorite almonds! How could this go wrong?

Well, for starters, there were only three … THREE … cocoa roast almonds in the bag. And the mixture was probably 70 percent peanuts.

Not that I have anything against peanuts, but when I’m told I’m getting almonds, don’t give me fucking peanuts. Give me my goddamn almonds.

Is this Trail Mix or a Christmas Special?

But that didn’t stop me from tearing into some animal-style fries from In “N’ Out Burger this morning.

“But, Queen of Awesome,” you ask, “how did you get In ‘N’ Out fries so early in the morning?”

Well, my adorable King of Awesome went to the weekly Brewsday Tuesday at the Common Table and decided to get himself a burger on the way home. And since he knows I’m a woman and a french-fry-devouring stereotype (women will always eat your fries; we can’t help it; hunger matters not), he brought me a ooey goey container of the sloppiest, onion-slathered, cheesy fries known to man.

They were so good, I wanted them to be the first thing I ate this morning.

It was the best fucking breakfast I’ve had in a long time, too. I love being a grown up.

You and me, baby, ain't nothing but mammals.

A few years ago, I about threw up I was laughing so hard when I heard about the McGangbang at McDonald’s.

It’s a McChicken sandwich inside of a Double Cheeseburger. From top to bottom:

1. Bread
2. Sauce/Cheese
3. Meat
4. Bread
5. Sauce
6. Lettuce
7. Chicken
8. Bread
9. Sauce
10. Cheese
11. Meat
12. Bread

Shoving one sandwich inside of another sandwich and then shoving that into your hole. Count me in, even though I don’t even eat meat. In fact, I just want to watch someone else eat it. Talk about kinky.

There are many accounts of people actually ordering this meaty monstrosity by name … and then the McDonald’s employees actually giving them both sandwiches! (Of course, they must remain diplomatic and don’t recognize that McDonald’s food has been referenced in a crazy sex act.)

Would you try a McGangbang? And if so, will you video your experience and send it to me?

In 'N' Out may have cool secrets, but they'll never have the McGangbang.

Because every Wednesday at three o’clock, I hear the delightful pops of the popcorn machine. And since I sit next to the kitchen, I’m always one of the first people in line to grab a box of salty, tasty, happiness.

More companies need to treat their employees with simple treats. It really raises morale and interaction. It’s like social hour over here.

And my little extroverted self loves it.

Perhaps it’s why we can suddenly hate something we liked recently.

Like me with salt and vinegar chips.

I used to really enjoy them. I liked them as recently as a month ago. But I got a sinus infection and while my sense of smell and taste was compromised, the chips tasted like dung to me.

Then when everything was back to normal, I ate one and it still tasted like dung, or the crusty residue underneath a soccer mom’s car’s floor mat.

Did my allergies change my taste for good? Or did aging alter my palette?

Either way, a bag of Pop Chips which once only lasted about two days in my home has now been there for two weeks. And it’ll probably be there another two.

Because I’m not touching them.

Pickle sunflower seeds, to be more specific (again, not pregnant).

So during the afternoon slump, I ran (walked) down the street (around a few corners) in the 100 plus degree weather (oh Texas summer) to the nearby 7-11 (7-11).

None of this is really relevant. I’m just trying to paint a picture. A salty, tasty picture.

But trekking anywhere in this heat for a simple snack is pretty much a suicide mission. So you can understand the power of this craving.

Peril aside, every time I eat sunflower seeds, it’s always a love/hate thing. I think it’s fun to crunch the shells in my mouth, and it’s even more fun to spit them out (unsanitary and disgusting, but fun).

But the shells are sharp and salty. And this is a bad combination. Because not only do I usually slice my poor mouth to bits, but I’m literally rubbing salt into the cuts.

And if I don’t end up cutting myself, my mouth helplessly puckers over time because of the moisture-sucking saltiness.

It’s certainly some form of masochism. It has to be. After all, it’s a ton of work to get to those teeny, tiny seeds.

So why  not buy pre-shelled? Because those aren’t any fun.

And for the sake of fun, I’ll endure the pain. Besides, love conquers all.

Unless you’re on a film set. And you have terrible timing when it comes to eating.

I swear, as soon as I bite into a pita chip, the director says, “Action.”

And I have to hold a tempting chip in my mouth, trying me damnedest not to bite down.

Because one crunch, and I wreck the shot. And then everyone hates me.

It’s almost like holding a sneeze. Only it’s holding a chip. In my mouth.

It’s torture. Try it. You won’t last a minute.

Take five. Action.

For my birthday, my husband (the King of Awesome) took me to Fort Worth. We ate dinner at a restaurant called Grace. To say it was phenomenal would do it an injustice.

I won’t even go into detail about the Burrata Mozzarella with Walnut Pesto, or the Maine Diver Scallops that I would punch my mother for.

I’m just going to talk about the Pain Perdu. Don’t be scared by the word “pain;” it’s French for bread. Just know that it comes with butter pecan ice cream, bruleed bananas, and all in a pool of salted caramel.

And it’s literally a food-gasm. I actually blacked out while eating it. I will drive back to Fort Worth just to eat it again.

There’s no better anything on the planet than this dessert. Heroine can’t compare.

So get your ass to Fort Worth and have some Grace.

As an unpaid blogger, I get to say it all I please. So Super Bowl, Super Bowl, Super Bowl.

Now that we have that out of the way, let’s talk about the real history of the Super Bowl. More specifically, Super Bowl cuisine.

Many people believe the Super Bowl is called the Super Bowl because it’s the biggest bowl game around. True, but not the reason for the large name.

It’s called the Super Bowl because of the humble little avocados. Because they’re consumed by the bowlful on the holiest of Sundays (degrees of holiness are obviously subjective; a Super Bowl can only be as holy as the teams competing).

But it wasn’t always this way.

Chips and dips were always a football-party standard. They’re easily shared, tasty, and go great with beer. But one faithful day at a HUGE Super Bowl party somewhere in California, a couple forgot the dip. Flustered, the host and hostess had mere moments to come up with an alternative before guests arrived. They tore their kitchen apart, searching the cabinets for something creamy and edible.

And in the last moment of desperation, bent over the bowl of chips, hair still in curlers, IT happened.

A chunk of the wife’s homemade avocado facemask slid from her nose and onto a chip.

“Hey, that’s food!” cried the husband.

The couple hurriedly ran to the avocado tree in the front yard and plucked the fat fruits from the branches. Then they mashed and bashed like crazy to create not just guacomole, but avocado dip. They threw in sour cream, added onions, and salted it to perfection.

Guests ate the new creation like mad. They devoured bowls of the stuff. And history was made.

And if you believe any of this, you’re mad, too.

Super Bowl. Super Bowl. Super Bowl.

And trust me, I’ve been to many “Irish” pubs across the U.S. And they’re all lacking something.

Trinity Hall Irish Pub in Mockingbird Station in Dallas (although they have a new location in Allen, I just haven’t been there yet) is a true Irish pub. Right down to the wood.

Trinity Hall rocks. First off, the owner is Irish. Second, the food is badass ass. Not to mention they have quite a number of vegetarian options, as the pubs in Ireland do. Third, they know their beer.

They know their beer so well that Izzie (on of their bartenders) was awarded by Guinness for his pint pouring skills. Ever have a perfect pint? The answer is simply, ever been to Trinity Hall Irish Pub in Dallas?

In the mood for something hot instead of beer, get an Irish Coffee or a Hot Toddy. Just make sure Joe is your server; his hot drinks are to die for. In fact, I’d feel safe betting that no one can make a hot, Irish drink that could beat one of Joe’s. Having one of his Irish coffees easily turns into drinking three.

And if you’re hungry, well, you can’t go wrong. I hear the Bangers and Mash are excellent. I can tell you from experience that the Mulligatawny stew (vegetarian broth!) is heart warming. But one of my favorites is the Mockingbird Sunday, a baked potato stuffed to the nines with cheese, vegetables, and more potatoes.

Go up there on a Sunday for the Pub Quiz. Or head out there anytime, really. If there’s a soccer or rugby game playing, be prepared for a truly authentic Irish experience; the place can get crowded. Other times, it’s a great, quiet place for the whole family (yep, they have a kids’ menu).

Try to sit in either Ollie or Joe’s sections. And tell them Yummy Awesome sent you.

Sláinte, Y’all.

Don't you dare call it your pub, because it's my pub.

(n.)

A de-boned chicken stuffed into the cavity of a de-boned ducke stuffed into the cavity of a de-boned turkey. Then cooked and devoured by glutenous people.

—

The thought is actually quite funny. Let’s shove this animal up this animal’s ass. Then shove those animals into another animal’s ass. Then shove those animals into our mouths and later out of our asses.

I want to laugh, but I also want to cry. If anything prevents me from ever eating meat again, it’s this monstrosity (or those turtle burgers I wrote about some time ago).

Thank you, Thanksgiving, for giving turkeys another reason to fear November. As if being the main centerpieces of countless U.S. tables wasn’t embarrassing enough, now they’re getting packed like a … I really want to say cheerleader on prom night, but I’m not sure if that works here.

Or maybe it does.

Turd. Uck! Ehhn?

And then once I arrived, I had to wait another hour and a half for a table.

It was well worth it, though. That place is tasty (at least the food is tasty, I didn’t lick the walls or anything). And the drinks are fabulous; so any excuse to order another one is fine by me. Even if that excuse is a long wait.

I started with a little crushed berry and vodka concoction called the Amelia. Served in a martini glass and oh-so-pretty, this drink nearly made me swoon by looks alone. Then I tasted it. Mmmm. Being shoulder to shoulder with strangers didn’t even bother me with one of those tangy, sweet beverages in my hand … and brain.

BONUS: One of the bartenders had the sweetest mustache ever. We’re talking 1930s barber ‘stache. Glorious!

Once we sat, the service was friendly and prompt. And the food was DELICIOUS. Yep, in all-caps. It was so fucking good, I can’t even really remember what I had. There were grits. There were shrimp. I think there may have been some shaved Unicorn horn and Centaur sweat. Whatever they put on their food, they need to keep adding it.

There’s a bigger Neighborhood Services over on Lovers Ln. I’ll be checking that one out, as well. Try it for yourself. And tell them Yummy Awesome sent you.

The Neighborhood Services ... crest? Last I checked, neighborhood was one word. And why do monograms put the last initial in the center? I hate that.

Because they all suck compared to the salty glory of the hamburger bed.

The one downside to a hamburger bed: being blackout drunk and waking up to no bed at all.

My extensive research tells me that Kayla Kromer of Austin, Texas, created this burgerlicious bed. And by “extensive research,” I mean someone sent me the link and I read the history of the bed.

But it’s not surprising that someone from Austin had the creativity and know-how to make such a unique place to sleep. Add it to the reasons-to-move-to-Austin list.

I like the idea of food furniture. Perhaps someone should sew a taco sleeping bag (I know, not furniture). Or muffin ottomans. Or a dining table that looks like a takeout box.

All I know is that going to bed for me isn’t as delicious as going to bed is for Kayla Kromer. Yummy Awesome salutes you!

As I seduce this magnificent, mushroom soufflé.

Oh, yeah.

So swollen. So tender.

So ready.

At first, I will fork it lightly.

So soft. So warm in the middle.

Slowly I penetrate. And watch as steam escapes.

Now, the foreplay is over. Time to dig in.

Mmmm.

I could eat this soufflé for hours.

I think I will.

I want to fork you, soufflé.

I just want to pinch their fucking translucent little cheeks.

They are the exact opposite of yesterday’s mean cookie. But there’s room for both in my tummy. Which by the way,  is now haunted with an entire bag of these spooky guys.

And we nearly starved to death.

Being from a different time zone, we ate later than the locals. Being from Dallas, we ate way later than the locals.

There were no food options after ten. Nothing. Even the bars quit serving chips and dip. What were the drunks supposed to snack on?

I’m not sure how other states do it, but Texas is very friendly to people who like full meals in the middle of the night. Dallas, for example, has many 24-hour restaurants.

• Cafe Brazil
• Buzzbrew’s
• IHOP
• Denny’s

Each offers full breakfast and dinner menus all damn day long. And it’s fantastic. You want waffles after midnight? Sure thing. You want a salad at 7 AM? It’s yours.

It took an hour of walking door to door in search of something edible for us to realize how spoiled we really were.

Anyhoo, in Alexandria, VA, we eventually found the Barroom at Columbia Firehouse. And they had some pretty damn good offerings. (But we could’ve thought that simply because our stomachs were attacking other organs at that point.)

Their sauces were especially tasty. Buttermilk goat cheese dip. Smoked mayonnaise. And creamy pimento cheese. I’m not sure how you smoke mayo, but I’m going to dedicate the rest of my life to figuring it out.

I’ll have to share the sad tale of trying to find dinner in Baltimore (a 3-hour venture) some other time.

Someone virtually introduced me to the Turtle Burger.

Not going to beat the hare now, are you?

Yeah, I just called a truck an asshole. Why? Because it was obnoxiously parked across not 1, not 2 , not 3 but 4 parking spaces in a busy strip mall during lunch time. And they weren’t even giving out free samples. It was just parked there. Taunting me with its white-bellied obesity and faded cheese-covered corn chips. Like I said, this truck is an asshole.

Who even eats Doritos anymore? Nacho Cheese should be called Nacho Feet and there’s nothing cool about Cool Ranch.

(Ok, I lied about that last part. Cool Ranch Doritos are pretty cool.)

But I think I’m most mad about the fact that their evil (but kind of genius) product placement tactic worked on me. You see, despite the fact that I had to circle the parking lot 3 times to find a spot, I still added a bag of Doritos to my meal. Because while my mind was screaming bloody murder. my tummy was rumbling louder. And it wanted something cheesy with an extreme crunch.

I hate that I ate you. But I kicked your left tire on my way out so we’re even, Doritos.

I love the stuff. I don’t care if it’s bad for me, gives me heart disease, gives me cancer of the pupil.

Whatever. This stuff is awesome.

I also prefer limes to lemons. Always have.

But never had I ever thought to put the two together. Lucky for me,  good ol’ Orville Redenbacher had such creativity. I found this Lime + Salt popcorn at the grocery store, and you would have thought I’d just been found not guilty at trial.

I jumped into the air. Possibly did a back flip. And ran out the store towards the nearest microwave (I payed, of course).

And every little puff of popped corn in this bag is perfect. With just the right amount of saltiness. And the perfect hint of lime.

Normal popcorn will no longer do it for me. I’m committed to this stuff.

Now, to replenish my supply. I’ve only one bag left.

After yet another trip to Home Depot at lunch today, I swung through the Carl’s Jr. drive-thru for a quick meal – their Charbroiled BBQ Chicken Sandwich is surprisingly tasty and healthy. And, in sticking to my new healthy eating regime, I got a side salad instead of fries.

I hungrily pulled the sandwich out of the bag and then the salad. And there, nestled at the bottom of the bag in between my fat-free balsamic dressing and the napkins were two gloriously crispy, perfectly golden fries.  Before I could even begin to ponder how they had gotten in my bag in the first place, they had disappeared down my gullet. I shook out the napkins looking for more but alas, there were none.

Found only in the Great White North (and parts of the UK), the Ketchup Chip is considered (at least according to me) one of Canada’s most delicious concoctions.

While Americans are obsessed with BBQ and ranch flavored snacks (ewwwwww), Canadians much prefer the tangy taste of ketchup. This most likely has to do with our more refined palette.  And the fact that ketchup has already proven itself to be an excellent pairing with fried potatoes – French fries anyone?

I’ve been in the US for six years now and I still crave ketchup chips almost daily.  Last week, a lovely friend of mine was kind enough to ship a bag out to me. I tried my best to save them. I really did. But I lasted all of 2 hours. Basically, I waited until I was alone to open the bag. This is not a treat that I care to share with anyone.

I opened the bag and reached a hand in, searching for the most ketchupy of ketchup chips. Dark red, it was covered in a thick layer of flavor. I put it in my mouth and let it sit on my tongue for a moment. Savoring its deliciousness, I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, the bag was gone. Empty. NO. Not possible. I eyed my cat suspiciously. But alas, I had only my own greed to blame. Not only can I not share these chips with anyone, I can’t even ration them from myself.

I happily licked each one of my ketchupy red fingertips clean and mentally ran down a list of people I could ask to send me another bag.