Kelley In Real Life

A hard-faced queen of misadventure, amongst other things.

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Snack Time: Ice Cream featuring Soft Serve with Special Guest, The McFlurry

Ice cream, especially soft serve, speaks to me in ways other treats cannot. There are few things in life that I would consider eating several days in a row but I can assure you soft serve ranks high on the list followed by a close second of a marinated kale salad. I’m not going to sit here and wax poetic about a childhood sprinkled (see what I did there?!) with memories of going to the ice cream shop with my parents because the truth is, I only remember going to the red sno cone hut in Grapevine, Texas, which was good, but had a significantly less amount of saturated fat, but oddly, a flavor that now in my adulthood tastes like a Flemish Sour. The only ice cream memories from my childhood was having a thing for Neopolitan ice cream but I could never pronounce the flavor correctly. I was always like ‘Hey mom, gimme some neh-po-lay-shun ice cream puh-lease’ and she delivered.

The thing I love about soft serve is that it is so overly decadent that it makes your teeth hurt before you even swallow a spoonful. There is nothing like pulling your spoon away from a cup of custard and seeing the strings of eggy goodness that you are about to ingest and possibly immediately regret since you have to wear a bathing suit tomorrow next to all of your skinny friends. For me, it’s love at first bite with every cone. So how did ice cream come about? Like all great food stories, it involved a lot of peasants, exploration, and of course, technological evolution.

Ice cream historians (sign me up!) speculate that the icy treat dates back as far as the second century B.C., though, there is no specific date or founder which basically means ice cream appeared out of thin air and the people rejoiced. The end. JK.

Shortly after the appearance of ice cream, it was reported that Alexander the Great liked to dabble in what we now call snow cones and Claudius Caesar liked to send his peasants into the mountain to chisel fresh ice that he flavored with fruit juices (side note: pretty sure said peasants pissed in Claud’s shaved ice and called it pineapple but that’s beside the point). As time passed, people were still eating shaved ice until Marco Polo came back to Italy a thousand years later from the “Far East” and was all like “Hey, let’s add cream and see what happens” - BOOM - sherbet is born or what they called “Cream Ice.” Around 1660 cream ice was made available to the public and there was sharp increase in sales of elastic waistband knickers.

Eventually, the bourgeoisie treat made its way to American shores but nobody really knows when. The first official documentation of ice cream came from a letter that was written by a guest of Maryland Governor William Bladen in 1774. I imagine it went something like this:

Hey Bill,

Went to Italy this summer with the fam and had something called cream ice. It was delish and thought I’d give it a whirl in the U.S. and maybe change things around grammatically and call it ice cream. Meet me in the kitchen at 8pm for a tasting, I already let your kitchen staff know about this.

Ron

Eventually ice cream became all the rage in the White House, so much, that the country’s main squeeze, George, spent $200 each summer on ice cream. Thomas Jefferson even had some convoluted recipe that caused everyone to get all ragey because it was an 18-step process that ultimately amounted to a modern-day Baked Alaska and who the fuck likes Baked Alaskas anyway? Ice cream remained accessible exclusively to society’s elite until 1800 when insulated ice houses were invented and the art of manufacturing ice cream became an actual industry in the United States because of some guy in Baltimore. Fast forward a few years and ice cream became trendier than peasants when tortillas came around.

Some additional fun facts about ice cream that I don’t feel like writing witty things about but are worth noting:

Soda Jerks emerged in 1874 with the invention of the ice cream soda

Those with sweet teeth received religious criticism for indulging in “sinfully” rich ice cream sodas on Sundays so the soda jerks removed the carbonation and thus the Ice Cream Sunday was born

“Sunday” was later changed to “Sundae” to not conflict, or associate itself, with the Sabbath

Scientists later learned sugar is basically like an opioid and is extremely addictive but most of us still eat it knowing it’s a better alternative than going to a methadone clinic twice a week

On the topic of opioids, I have tried all forms of ice cream: the ice cream truck varieties and their novelty counterparts, homemade with my refurbished CuisinArt, Jason’s Deli’s free soft serve, the $4.75-a-scoop at Humphrey Slocombe’s and a Sweet Cream Biscuit and Peach Jam cone found in Columbus, Ohio. So where do I really stand on ice cream?

On more than one occasion I have found myself at the McDonald's drive-thru for a McFlurry. You're probably wondering why I choose the McFlurry over the Blizzard and more importantly, why the heck am I foregoing the good shit for well, shit.  Here's why: I get it faster. You think I care that if you pause to tip my blended ice cream treat upside down to prove its holy blendedness? I don't. You think I enjoy waiting in long lines for your authentic hand-dipped flavors-you-can-only-find-here?  I'm more like 'gimme gimme' than 'wait wait' when it comes to nourishing the sweet roll that is the soft inner tube around my stomach. Not only does McDonald's have a thicker stick-to-your-ribs-custard minus the health benefits of oatmeal, it has a higher goodies-to-ice cream ratio. What does this mean, you ask? IT MEANS NOT ONLY DOES RONALD MCDONALD BLEND OREOS INTO YOUR CUSTARD BUT THAT FUCKING CLOWN SPRINKLES THEM ON TOP LIKE IT'S TICKER TAPE ON WALL STREET.

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Dinner last week in between tastings. 

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But for now we are young, let us lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see. 

Photo taken somewhere in VT.

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Sometimes my boyfriend photographs trash and then people write about it.

Jake Sauer picks up every discarded Arctic Splash carton he comes across and disposes of them — but not before snapping them in their natural habitat.

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a tree house with nutritional value.

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First we eat. Then we do everything else.

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paint by ice cream.

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Do we really want to travel in hermetically sealed popemobiles through the rural provinces of France, Mexico and the Far East, eating only in Hard Rock Cafes and McDonalds? Or do we want to eat without fear, tearing into the local stew, the humble taqueria's mystery meat, the sincerely offered gift of a lightly grilled fish head? I know what I want. I want it all. I want to try everything once.

Anthony Bourdain, Kitchen Confidential

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Snack Time: Soft Pretzels featuring The Pretzel Wrapped Hot Dog

I’m headed home from New York after a day of thought provoking TED-like talks about vibrating panties and overcoming adversity then emerging from the dust storm like a hero without a spot of dirt on your white tee, both of which were real topics that made me a) question the contents of my underwear drawer and b) wonder if I need more dramatic things to happen when I wear my white tees.  As I entered Penn Station two distinct smells penetrated assaulted my nostrils: piss and Auntie Ann’s pretzels. Despite the fact there are a stupid amount of shitty food choices in NYP Station, the only one that speaks to me is Auntie Ann’s soft pretzel with hydrogenated oil disguised as cheese dip. The twisty carb treat is sweet and buttery, salty and puffy and most importantly, greasy as fuck.

A few weeks ago, I was in Santa Barbara for work and I was telling my colleague how the metallic-dirty-sock smell of Subway makes me want to die or vomit, whichever happens first. She agreed but then said the smell of Auntie Ann’s was worse. I nearly stopped dead in my tracks, almost rebutted, but politely agreed. For a quick moment in time I thought “Are Auntie Ann pretzels not as good as I think they are?” and “Do I admit that I find this delightfully repulsive mall snack high on my list of things I like to eat before bikini shopping?”  So I pretended I didn’t like them, sucked down my fresh pressed juice and secretly prayed there would be an outpost at my layover in Phoenix (which I knew there wasn’t because I know that airport better than my own vagina, which is irrelevant).  Confused, we carried on with our conversation as we walked down State Street, though my mind was preoccupied with the only thing better than an Auntie Ann’s pretzel: a hotdog wrapped in a salty carb blanket.

I’m no stranger to soft pretzels as the frozen boxed variety were readily available as an after school snack growing up. You know, the kind where you have to splash the pretzel with water to get the salt to stick? When my mom and I would go shopping, we would always split an Auntie Ann’s original pretzel and large lemonade. While I love my mother, do you know how fucking hard it was to split the soft twisty center part of the pretzel? I am a selfish, selfish human being and ALWAYS HATED SHARING THAT PART WITH HER! It was – and still is – the best part of the pretzel and I wanted it all to myself.  Sorry mom, I’ve been holding that in for over a decade and I felt inspired to tell you because the girl next to me on the train is wasted and she seems like the type that would tell her mom these things unapologetically.

I’ve done some research about the pretzel and I’m going to give you my abbreviated version since we are dating back to medieval times and we are all on schedules here:

610: Soft pretzels were spotted in monk communities as rewards or “pretiolias” for children. They called it a reward back then, we call it ‘don’t take candy from strangers” today.

1100s: Carb treat makes some appearances in ancient literature but historians are confident they existed long before said literature which makes sense because monks were creepily handing them out to children.

1440: St. Bartholomew spotted in a prayer book surrounded by soft pretzels (are we noticing a theme here of holy figures  and their affinity for junk food?).

1500s: German kids made pretzel necklaces to signify good luck and good fortune around the holidays. We do something similar in the U.S. but it’s to counteract the possibility of vomiting on yourself at a beer festival.

1700s: Soft pretzels made their transatlantic journey and landed in Pennsylvania because it’s the greatest place on Earth most of the time.

1800s to Present: Someone burned the soft pretzel, it turned into a hard pretzel and now 80% of the commercial pretzel production exists in Pennsylvania. This story is not likely true but the results were tasty.

It wasn’t until I was in college when the pretzel dog was introduced to the mass market of malls and Einstein Bros Bagels. Ain’t nobody got time for Hot Dog on a Stick when there are foil wrapped grease traps waiting to be consumed by unassuming college girls who departed from their diet with wild abandon, such as myself. After perusing the sale racks at Neiman Marcus (thanks Gracie for the discount and free candle!), I found myself sitting on a bench near the Auntie Ann’s outpost with the foil wrapped snack nestled against my fancy ass pale pink jacquard Marc Jacobs shorts, unaware of my unintentional highbrow meets lowbrow moment. I unwrapped the pretzel dog and found a buttery, flaky pretzel blanket enveloping a delicious, greasy 80% real beef / 20% mystery meat hot dog (possibly the same formula as the Taco Bell meat). I bit into the hot dog and before I could enjoy the mystery meat, grease shot into my eye, and more importantly, directly on the crotch of said fancy pants.

I suppose that’s what I get for mixing highbrow with lowbrow.  

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Berlin's solution (albeit, a delicious one) to white trash snacking. 

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Snack Time: Tortillas

Let’s talk about tortillas and what they mean to you, me, us and general lovers of things that can be used as a vessel to get the Mexican goodies from Point A (your hand) to Point B (your mouth). Before we get started, let’s all agree there are only two types of tortillas: corn and flour. Don’t try to argue this whole sun dried tomato or spinach tortilla wrap bullshit because let’s be real, the people of Latin America aren’t interested in flavor blasting their country’s delicacy.

In case you didn’t know, tortillas date back as far as 10,000 B.C., which means Jesus was probably a fan of tacos and served them at The Last Supper. According to an ancient Mayan legend, corn tortillas were created by a peasant for his hungry king and were later adapted by the Aztecs because they found out peasants were on trend for the season. In 1519, the Spaniards made their way to what we now call Mexico, and discovered the maize flatbread being sold in public squares (along with shit piles of drugs) and decided to name these bad boys “tortillas.” Thus began fresh Mexican food and drug cartels.

Not to miss an opportunity to take something perfect and screw it up, Americans added gluten and lard and called it a flour tortilla. I actually don’t know if this is true, but given our track record this seems likely, if not accurate. As Mexico stayed true to its roots of masa, rice and beans, we continued on with our cultural degradation by stuffing tortillas with anything imaginable, deep frying the burrito and calling it a chimichanga, whatever the fuck that is (but the one at Chuy’s is delicious). Straying even further from the indigenous food of Mexico and other Latin America countries, U.S. kitchens served up sizzling meat in a blister-inducing cast iron skillets and called the dish fajitas, which if you say it phonetically, sounds like vaginas.

Vaginas Fajitas aside, I love me a breakfast burrito or a semi-stale tortilla covered in gooey processed cheese (I’m talking to you Joe T’s), but I really love my tortillas one way: warm and smothered in butter and honey. There is a small restaurant chain called Rosa’s Tortilla Factory in Fort Worth, TX right off of Hulen Street. Once a week, my friends and I would make the journey to Rosa’s for Taco Tuesday. A whopping $2.99 got you a huge plate of rice, refried beans and three tacos (crispy or soft) with your choice of filling and a side of warm flour tortillas. I should note that our friend Champ (Sarah) only ordered enchiladas, claiming she just liked the magic that surrounded Taco Tuesday. If by magic she meant self-induced gut rot, I too liked the magic of Taco Tuesday.

The end of my meal meant the consumption of what was likely the healthiest thing on my plate: the tortilla. Rosa’s wrapped two warm flour tortillas in foil with a side of butter and honey. While the remnants of my refried beans begged for a home, I pushed them to the side of the plate and unfolded the tortillas, slathering them in an unhealthy amount of butter followed by an unhealthy amount of honey that would probably kill a child if they tried to eat it. I rolled up the gooey mess and ate it like a fruit roll up until it was gone and my fingers were covered in a buttery, honeyed mess. Much like Doritos, smothered tortillas leave debris.

Lyle Lovett sings that he likes his eggs over easy in a flour tortilla. In the words of my cousin, I like my eggs unfertilized and my tortillas smothered in butter and honey.

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I found you near Mauer Park. I should have called. 

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Snack Time: Corn Dogs

Awhile back I posted a short anecdote of my last, and likely final, visit to the Texas State Fair in college that nobody read. To give you the gist of it, the story involved ferris wheels, corn dogs and sadness.

If you haven’t noticed already, I have a deep affinity for cheap, dirty snacks that shake my inner white trash spirit to the core. I’m not interested in foie gras if there is alternative dish that involves a potato chip or a donut, and I’m certainly not above eating more than the daily recommended amount of saturated fat. There’s something to be said for the girl who likes fancy shoes and shitty snack foods, am I right?

Corn dogs were another childhood favorite of mine, though only reserved for a special treat. Contrary to popular belief, my parents did provide my brothers and I with a well balanced diet but nobody gives a shit about the skim milk I drank out of my limited edition Garfield x McDonald’s glass (irony!!!!!!!!!) or the steamed vegetables I pushed around my plate until I was forced to eat them by my fiery red-headed mother. I digress. Though Texas is the land of mostly fatty food, corn dogs are not as ubiquitous as one would think given that Texas is home to one of the fattest cities in America, but who knows, maybe the corn- dog-to-human ratio in Houston is worse than we think.

Every Wednesday, my mom would cart my brothers and I around the greater DFW area to various activities: Jeremy to gymnastics, I would go to dance (which I never got past the intro class) and Zach would have soccer practice. Red Hot appropriately gave these nights the nomenclature “Wacky Wednesdays.” With no time to cook dinner we would hit the drive thru at either Wendy’s or my personal favorite, Sonic. In case you didn’t know, Sonic is much like Jack in the Box in the sense you can get french toast sticks, a burger, grilled cheese and a chili dog all on the same menu AND NO ONE CAN TELL YOU CAN’T EAT BREAKFAST AT 7PM OR A CHILI DOG FOR BREAKFAST. I always ordered the corn dog because nothing made me happier than unwrapping the steaming dog and biting into the crispy, yet soft corn batter and into the greasy dog. It is absolutely disgusting, unhealthy and probably made from pieces of rat, but I was four and didn’t really care what I put into my body as long as it tasted delicious and mom said it was “ok.” When we moved to the East Coast corn dogs were few and far between with the exception of the occasional trip to the amusement park or Hot Dog on a Stick at the mall. My mom offered to buy frozen ones but she and I both knew a microwaved corn dog would never fill the void in my stomach or equate to my childhood memories.

When I found myself back in Texas, my friends and I decided to go to the Texas State Fair - a frightening display of hillbillies and small children at petting zoos. There are three main attractions at the Texas State Fair: The Ferris Wheel, Corn Dogs and Big Tex (R.I.P, that mother fucker burned doooown). So really, there are just two attractions unless you count the aforementioned hillbillies. The great folks of Texas come in droves to the State Fair, paying $30 to park on some college student’s lawn, toting their screaming child, pushing a stroller the size of a small van all while balancing three coolers on their heads. Coolers you ask? These fair-going-folks filled their coolers with corn dogs and froze them for the non-existent cold winter months ahead. I get the whole stockpiling thing because if the world ends we want to be prepared, but aren’t we all in agreement that we will be just fine with Twinkies and Keith Richards?

To make a long story short, at 19 I found myself walking into the Texas State Fair with the imminent consumption of fried everything lingering in the air - Oreos, Snickers, Twinkies, armadillo, etc. In case you were wondering, the State Fair isn’t a fucking free for all like an amusement park. You basically trade money for tickets and use them however you please, much like how streetwalkers trade tricks for coke, nawimean? I paid an obscene amount of money for 20 tickets to procure the corn dog and ride on the ferris wheel. I bought my corn dog for 11 tickets, filled a small cup with yellow mustard and wove my way through the crowds to get to the big eye in the sky. I stopped dead in my tracks. A big sign crushed my State Fair dreams: FERRIS WHEEL - 10 TICKETS.

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Say Cheese. 

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Snack Time: Fritos

I am a Texan-born baby, so much that I exited the womb on the Sesquicentennial Anniversary of Texas’ Independence from Mexico. So what does this all mean besides another reason for a Texan to shout “WE WERE ONCE OUR OWN COUNTRY MOTHER FUCKER?” It means I received a plaque from the government with a limited edition stamp and preferred salsa over breast milk.

I grew up eating at the local Mexican restaurant, Esperanza’s, in Grapevine, Texas. As a kid I always ordered the Mexican Pizza - masa dough with a layer of refried beans, queso fresco and grilled veggies. I have fond memories of me crashing my mom’s lunch dates (really, because I had no choice at the feeble age of 4) and sitting next to her, deconstructing my “pizza” all while savoring the flavors of Tex-Mex fare.  As I got older and my five-year-old palate continued to develop, I was finally able to join the big leagues and eat bowls of my mom’s homemade chili and more importantly, Frito Pies!

As a native Texan, comfort food comes in many forms, whether it's hearty posole during the winter months or migas on a Saturday morning. For me, comfort food comes in a small foil bag filled with fried corn chips, smoky chili and a gob of sharp cheddar cheese. No need for a bowl, just peel back the Frito bag and dig in with a fork. When my mom made chili, we did our own deconstructed version of the Frito Pie: I layered the bottom of my bowl with Fritos and cheese, poured a scoop of chili on top of the crunchy base and then added another layer of corn chips to the top. I usually let the chili and Fritos “steep” for five minutes to achieve the maximum crunch-to-chili ratio (which is really important because nobody’s got time for shards of Fritos cutting the roof of your mouth).

Fritos originated in San Antonio, Texas, so it only made sense that these delicate, greasy corn chips were an integral part of my childhood diet. To give you some background, some guy named Elmer Doolin wanted to make a snack of the never-go-stale variety and found that deep frying the shit out of masa was the trick and so it was, the birth of the Frito, and unknowingly, a love affair that would last my entire lifetime.

After doing some research, I learned Fritos had an international presence like their Lays Potato Chip counterpart has in Europe. I am still trying to figure out why Frito-Lay never brought the following flavors over to the U.S.: Chorizo and Chipotle, Adobados, Salt and Lime, Bar-B-Q Hoops (WHAT DOES THIS EVEN MEAN?) and Sweet Chili Twists. Obviously, had I known earlier, I would have been an advocate to immigrate these ethnic varieties to U.S. soil. There’s got to be more to snack life than Honey BBQ twists and the classic Frito, such as artificial chorizo dust and barbeque hoops.

Over the years, I’ve enjoyed Fritos straight out of the little square bag at lunch time (so I much, I used to discriminate the other bags of chip in the variety pack and only eat the Fritos), by the handful out of the bag and occasionally dipped in mustard (thanks Mom!) and used as a vessel to get whatever sour-cream-based dip straight into my mouth. I especially love Honey BBQ Twist Fritos on road trips, usually with a Diet Coke, because why the fuck not practice a balanced diet when I’m traveling? If I wasn’t licking off the salt and grease off of my fingers, I found myself wiping my greasy fingertips on the upholstery of my car (sorry Dad!) and going in for another handful.

So here I am as a twenty-something-year-old with a somewhat “refined” palate depending on who you ask. I love trying new food and get excited at the idea of a pork belly corn dog or a perfect roast chicken, but it’s food like Fritos, and its accompanying memories, that move me (to eat).

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Hero.