Love of FOOD

If you didn't already know by now- well let me tell you- Polynesians love food!  This meant I needed to learn how to cook well and get the proportions down to a science.  It would be an insult if we ran out of food during a family bbq!  I've learned that Clam Chowder and salads won't do.  One time Simon's dad  asked, "Where's the meat?"  Prompting a quick run to KFC.  Thus, I mastered the cooking and the supply rather quickly.   We have meat with every meal, and a lot of it.  This goes along with rice, fruit and more rice.  Having friends and family with an unending supply of food is nostalgic for me.  I'm so lucky I had a good example growing up.

My love for good food shared with friends and family started in my childhood.  My mom was an extremely great cook but didn't know the concept of small batches.  Everything was made in ginormous quantities.  With a small family of four a lot of food went to waste.  Growing up, food at my house meant good times, good company and an unending supply!  I fondly remember having my grandparents over one Sunday afternoon.  My mother made banana splits.  She brought out a plethora of toppings, flavors and fixings.  It was better than any Baskin Robbins on the planet!  Her supply of food and food options where nothing short of a buffet for every meal! 

Simon used to travel a ton for business.  Through out the years I have tagged along for extended business trips.   It's a funny thing being married for so long.  Your loves become those of your partner and vice versa.  Our vacations have become a sort of Man vs. Food adventure.  If any of you have vacationed with us you know this to be true.  We do our research and find great food flares, gorging our selves to the point of elation. Most of the places we've visited we return to on subsequent visits but there are a few that we'd like to forget.  My stomach wasn't born in Tonga.  It's weaker and can't hold as much.  But to give my stomach some credit it has only put a real damper on one extended business trip.

New Orleans a week before Mardi Gras is indeed a spectacle!  The weekend before Simon's business conference we traveled together to discover Bourbon Street.  I was excited to dance my way down the street enjoying different genres of music in neighboring pubs.  The first night upon arrival we ventured out.  The evening was strange.  Strange in a way that made you a bit confused.  People from all walks of life turned into costume clad crazies.  I felt out of sorts like a peeping tom, spying on or sitting on the fringe of insanity while walking down the street.  It felt like a dream or a movie and I was an extra.  We stopped in a pub and I ate my first oysters on a half shell, washed it down with a  good old fashioned sweet tea and headed back out.  After dinner, we were more courageous and poped in one club after another.  The music was loud, live and well worth it!  We danced forever and then made our way back to the hotel.

The next day the #1 priority was to eat a Beignet at Cafe Du Monde and a Muffuletta Sandwich anywhere they were served.  Breakfast was a hit.  Of course we didn't just eat one Beignet, but an entire bag!  They were delicious and melted in your mouth.  We did some sight seeing and then found a "Muff" sandwich, which the locals so lovingly have nicknamed.  We shared a traditional style Muff, large, round, and somewhat flattened loaf with a sturdy texture, around 10 inches across and covered with layers of marinated olive salad, mordella salami, mozzarella, ham and provolone.  Upon our return to the hotel, my stomach was a bit queasy.  I took some pepto and laid down for a nap.  We woke up to the throngs of loud music and fun radiating from Bourbon Street!  I couldn't wait to go out and squeeze into the culture for a second night.  My weakened stomach was not about to stop me.  We dressed and skipped out and entered Bourbon.  I no sooner put two steps on the sidewalk and I ran over to the gutter and knelled down to vomit.  As I was retching my guts out- the Muff sandwich not agreeing with me, I vaguely heard passerby's with comments of educated sympathy, offering my husband pity for his drunk companion.  No one came to my rescue that night with a rub on the back or to hold my hair from my face.  I stood up whipped the tears from my eyes and the spittle from my mouth turned around and said to my husband, "Why didn't you take a picture? I just puked my guts up on Bourbon street!"  He couldn't hold in the laughter and said, "Hun, you fit right in with the locals tonight.  Everyone thinks your a drunk!" We giggled together, our steps light, held hands and wound our way down the street with the costume clad crazies that night.   I think it's safe to say to all my friends and family, Don't eat a Muff sandwich- it's just not safe! :)

This week we are headed to Vegas.  We will frequent the deep fried Twinkies and Oreos on Freemont Street and maybe our friend Johnny will find us a new place to try?  I'll pack the pepto just in case!