Mopey Mopers

Willie and Maddie have been kind of lackluster the last couple of weeks, too

Most of my meals as of late are stolen. I guess not, in the most technical sense of the word, since I both a)paid 26k for my education and b)am only taking food that would be thrown away or fed to the PM students. But the basic idea is that I haven’t really bought any groceries in a while, instead preferring to take whatever is leftover at school. I’ve used it both at home, and to feed the doctors. It’s not like it’s swill, either. I mean, I’m talking full, uncut loaves of bread still warm from the oven. I’m talking 4 freshly griddled reuben sandwiches. I’m talking an entire pot of duck and pork rilette that hasn’t even been pierced. It’s good, fresh, expensive stuff. It just happens that we overproduce at school.

Saving the money on groceries has been great. We just bought the new Canon Vixia HV30, which is a high-def “prosumer” camcorder. It’ll come in handy for the wedding, and for my eventual home porn business, which will never happen, but is a good excuse for buying things. “I really can’t afford this shirt…oh well. I’ll just put it on the credit card and go home and sell some amateur porn.” Right. I don’t even like to be photographed in my clothes, let alone have HIGH DEFINITION action footage of my thigh-meat jiggling around in the manner of barely-set custard.

The other thing is that I have little food motivation lately. I’m in baking and pastry, which is AWESOME, except for that I have gained a pound or two, and my wedding is in LESS THAN THREE WEEKS. Yes, I’m yelling a lot. But seriously. Less than three weeks. And I’m gaining weight. Suck. I’m not terribly worried, though. I’m sure it will be fine given that I haven’t tried on my wedding dress since November.

But it’s also very distracting. It’s such a big thing, you know? And I’m in this strange-ass city with no friends or family, and I’m homesick and bitter and nervous and lonely. Chris is great, but I feel like I should be surrounded by festivity right now, and instead I’m not. Plus, I get the feeling I’ve started alienating the people I DO know down here by talking about how much I hate Texas. And that makes me feel like complete dog shit. I didn’t realize how much I’d been doing it until it was pointed out to me. Ugh.

So I’m a little down. But excited, you know, for May 9th. The one fantastic constant between Colorado and Texas has been Chris, and he’s amazing. And he’s been trying to participate in ritualistic bride stuff as much as he’s able.

Chris modeling a pre-nuptual Origins clarifying masque

We did find a farmer’s market on Saturday, though, which was uplifting. I love farmer’s market, and those of you who have been reading this for some time may remember my trials trying to find a decent farmer’s market out here last summer. This one was, ironically, in the parking lot of my school. I bought some fantastic carrots, onions, fennel, broccoli, and grass-fed short ribs from a humane cattle farm. I’ve entirely stopped buying meat that isn’t certified (or verifiably) humane. It makes me feel better about the whole food chain thing. So we had a great stir fry with the broccoli and some carrots on Saturday, and then braised the short ribs in pinot noir, beef stock and garlic, shredded it, and put it on some polenta with a drizzle of the red wine reduced, and some of the fresh carrots, still pretty crisp. I hate soft carrots. The carrots were ridiculously sweet and delicious. They still had that snap and juice to them that comes only from carrots that were pulled out of the ground in the last 48 hours, and they tasted like honey.

And a week ago our grocery store had prime rib on sale for 8.99/#, so I bought a big bone-in standing rib roast and cooked it up. I made mashed potatoes with butter, truffles, and fresh peas, and a basic jus.
Fantastic, fattening, and utterly decadent food. Small portions for poor me, obviously, but it was still like a big hug from a hunk of meat. I took the leftovers from the prime rib to school and shaved them very thinly with our slicer, brought them home, and served them on some cottage cheese and dill rolls that were made at school that day. It was a fantastic matchup, with the soft and buttery roll surrounding the very rare shaved prime rib. And the fact that the rolls, before being baked, were being referred to as “the cottage cheese dill dough,” didn’t hurt my spirits. Heh.

Other than that? I’ve eaten a lot of puff pastry. And pate a choux. And pastry cream. And guilt. And I can’t wait to go home and see everyone and turn into a wife and get to stop wearing attractive underwear. Kidding.

My threesome with Chef Achatz

I promised you a recap of Alinea, and not one to be a big fat liar, I am now going to deliver. What I will say is this: if you are ever in the position of choosing between a brand new laptop computer and an equally priced dinner at Alinea, you should ALWAYS choose the dinner at Alinea. Because laptops are known to be chewy, and while Steve Jobs creates much more user-friendly interfaces, Grant Achatz is a fucking genius. And I say that with all the love in my yuppie heart–for both of them.

I could be a pretentious butthead and go on and on using my SAT words about how much I loved dinner, about the interplay between the different flavors (the dill positively FROLICKED amongst tenacious flavors of squid ink and the subtle linger of a single cantaloupe teardrop, fresh in its own summer dew), but it’s difficult to kick one’s own ass without knee discomfort, so I’ll be pretty pedestrian about it. Plus, then everyone will kind of get what I experienced.

I’ve had a lot of people say “That’s really cool, Kristie. But I don’t think my palate could appreciate it as well as yours.” Actually, even the gentlemen who accompanied us to the dinner said that, and he was STUNNED by how able he was to appreciate it. What it does, and I truly believe this, is INSTANTLY grant even the most food-dunce-ish among us the power to taste the full texture, aroma, depth, playfulness and genuine emotion of each dish. Thus every palate is educated, pleased, and stunned by the meal. A full year in culinary school wasn’t able to make me eat a piece of scallop, but I ate the bejeebus out of them at Alinea. Best. Experience. Ever. Like the birth of a child, only I left with my lady bits intact, and the only stains on my shirt were from drool, not lactation.

So, without further inanity, here is my night at the restaurant:

First, Chris and I walked past the restaurant during the day. It goes out of its way to pretend not to be one of the top rated restaurants in the US. It’s a solid gray building, smaller than its neighbors, and has absolutely zero markings of any kind, save the address number. Sure, it’s a little bit cocky, but I like cocky.

We were super lucky to be staying with an awesome guy named Kevin Simpson. He’s the head of pulmonology at Loyola med school, I believe. Or something that sounds too important to be as cool as he is. His house was absurd, his hosting skills even better, and he went with us to Alinea, which made it even that much more enjoyable. It’s fun to watch non-foodies eat amazing food and become insta-foodies before your eyes. Anyway, the three of us walked into the restaurant at 6 pm for our reservation. His house is two blocks away, so it was uber-convenient. I eat at 6 because if I eat any later, my body spontaneously digests itself. I’ll never be the “dinner reservation at 8 pm” girl. I’m okay with that.

When we walked in the door, there was a dark, red-lit hallway that seemed to get progressively smaller as we walked along, Willie Wonka-style. Then, all of a sudden to our left, a door magically slid open, revealing the restaurant and an emotionless but sweet hostess who was impeccably dressed, had lovely hair, and was pretty and thin, but just the right amount so as not to be prettier or thinner than the women who came to the restaurant to eat. Nice touch, Achatz.

We were seated, and took in the restaurant for a moment. It’s very clean-cut, with a few modern lines and a few classically elegant touches. There were waitstaff milling around obsequiously, outnumbering us in the dining room. One came up and placed a black bulb on our table, asked us if we knew what it was, and when we didn’t replied, “Good. I’d have worried otherwise.” Then the sommelier stopped by, got us to agree to the wine pairings (which we’d predetermined we do anyway), and left. He was a TOTAL wank. The only person of the night who really stood out against the backdrop that was meant to highlight only the food and the experience. Even his weasely little voice overpronounced French and Italian words to the point of sounding, and I think this is the correct word, snivelly. Or snide. An “sn” word, for sure. But whatever, the wine was fantastic, and it was the first time I’d ever had a wine pairing that really made the meal taste more like itself, if that makes sense.

The first course came, and it was the one I’d gotten myself most psyched for when reading reviews. It’s described as “Hot potato, cold potato, black truffle, butter.” That’s how the menu is written; as just a list of the flavors you’ll experience in the dish. And this one is meant to be taken like a shot. It was this buttery rich potato “soup,” and when you pulled the pin, a ball of potato, a chive slice, a leek piece *I think*, a magical slab of black truffle and something else all fell into the liquid, and it went down in a shot. It was incredible, all thick and rich and face-smackingly-earthy from the truffle. Oh, and served with a Bruno Paillard ‘Premiere Cuvee’ Brut Rose, Reims. Clearly, I’m just writing the wine as it’s written on my souvenir menu, and I know what none of those words mean, except “brut” and “rose.”

Then they brought a bread course. There was a bread pairing with every dish, as well as a wine pairing. I liked that, even though they were less memorable than the food, obviously.This was a biscuit served with both sweet butter topped with lava salt and plain goat butter (goat products always taste like tin cans and goat fur to me).

Next came the most questionable dish for me. Lilac, scallop, shellfish, honeydew.
I am proud to say I ate every bite, even though there were multitudes of shit I don’t eat floating around in a broth with some gooey squares of white and a single gellified square of clear that I couldn’t identify. And it wasn’t bad. It might have even been good. Lord how I detest seafood, but this had only the flavors of fresh honeydew melon, in this case it was tiny pearls of such, and the ocean. Clean, slightly salty, slightly floral, and sweeter than you’d think. I guess if you’re going to branch out into different realms of food (like the ocean) this is the place to do it. It was served with a Paolo Bea ‘Santa Chiara’ Bianco, Umbria, Italy 2005 (the clearly American sommelier insisted on pronouncing this as “OOMbreeaaaah”). The wine really brought out the melon. How’s that for analysis? I still wish I knew what the white goo was…

The next dish came and we were back in familiar culinary-dry-hump territory. This was the pork belly, iceberg, cucumber, thai distillation dish. It was REALLY cool. The clear gel on the spoon smelled like a freshly cut Thai pepper, was completely clear, and then tasted like the green, freshness of a chile without the heat. Crazy. Then the rest of the dish was perfectly balanced, with little dabs and dollops of different sauces and gels placed artfully around the main pieces of sweet and salty pork belly and crisp vegetables. There was zero spice, but the flavor was so cleanly Thai, like the world’s best egg roll bowl without the grease. Wow. It was served with an Abbazia di Novacella Kerner, Valle Isarco, Alto Adige 2007. I don’t remember that wine, but I’m sure it provided the taste-bud reach-around that was intended.

Next, the white asparagus, sorrel, white pepper, honey dish, which was texturally among the most interesting, and certainly packed a great flavor punch. The dish was initially brought to the table in a glass cylinder, at which point we ooohed, and then a waiter picked up the glass cylinder, causing the food to sploosh down on the plate, and we aahhhed. Good stuff. There were SO many components to this dish. The white pieces that look like packing peanuts were really cold, and had the flavor of white pepper with the consistency of astronaut ice cream. The liquid was perfectly executed, and tasted mostly like sorrel, but had pieces of perfectly crisp-tender white asparagus floating throughout. I love white asparagus. It looks like albino baby-weiner, but it’s so sweet and delicate. I imagine if you bit spring, it would taste like white asparagus. There was some powdered honey crystal throughout that brought out the sweetness of the asparagus, as well as added a caramelized crunch to the occasional bite. It was served with the Domaine de Noire Chinon Rose, Loire 2007. The wine tamed the sweetness of the honey, so it was a paddle-ball approach to sweet/savory that I really enjoyed. Oh, and the little bubble-tea-style pearls were sweet, too. That texture always makes me feel like a happy kid.

Next, they brought a dish so mind-boggling that I don’t really even know where to begin.
It’s going to sound bizarre, but it was an entire dish meant to play with the flavor of butter. Lobster, popcorn, butter, curry. It was a couple pieces of perfectly cooked lobster, pre-shelled because otherwise I might have had to not eat it, atop beds of corn, popcorn, a blanket of butter gel, and a sphere of liquid butter that burst when the fork tine hit it. And it all married together with a slight backdrop of curry, but mostly just tasted like a birthday party for butter. I don’t do lobster, either, and this was just so insanely delicious. It also was the dish in the group that made me think, “I bet potheads would really appreciate this dish.” It was served with a Chereau-Carre Muscadet ‘Comte Leloup de Chasseloir Ceps Centenaires’ Loire 2003 AND a Martelet de Cherisey Meursault-Blagny ler cru ‘La Genelotte’ Cote de Beaune 2000. That is so many words for just two glasses of wine, but they were great. One was almost buttery, and the other very acidic that cut right through the butter to clean your mouth in preparation for the next buttery barrage. Also, I should comment that this dish was salted perfectly. It stood out, somehow. None of the dishes were under- or over-salted, but this was just a shining example of salt used correctly.

They followed it immediately with a single-bite dish called black truffle, explosion, romaine, parmesan.It was a raviolo, served in a spoon that sat in a bottomless saucer, filled with a liquid that was more intensely truffled than a truffle itself, it seemed. It actually did explode in your mouth (hehe), and left you desperately trying not to swallow for fear that the liquid would go down your throat too fast and you wouldn’t be able to remember the flavor for the rest of your life. Life-changing, that bite. My favorite of the night. I don’t know about romaine or parmesan, but the truffle. Ach. This dish seemed to be the climax (and I almost did) of a crescendo of exciting dishes.

Then came a dish that was a touch “meh.” It was great, don’t get me wrong, but still “meh.” It was Waygu beef, powdered A-1, potato, chips. Basically a square of perfectly rare Waygu beef, and a square of creamy mashed potato crusted in potato chips and deep fried. Anywhere else this dish would have had me crying for lack of words, but it almost seemed wasted among the intricate lunacy of the rest of the dishes. I think it’d work better earlier in the night, maybe. Or any other night. That fried potato outside with cream potato inside was decadent in a way that’s hard to describe. The wine pairing for this dish was the La Sirena ‘Barrett Vineyard’ Syrah, Napa Valley 2004. I love red wine with a rare steak. Makes me feel like a classy vampiress.

Next came the “bacon swing” I’d been excited for. Please forgive the dark and horrible picture, as it starts to get REALLY grainy from hereon out. Because it got very dark in the restaurant, and they don’t allow camera flashes.Bacon, butterscotch, apple, thyme. I think I ate it too fast, as it didn’t seem to be as flavorful as I’d have liked. It was definitely a dessert bacon, if there is such at thing, and was important to the meal in that a) it looked cool, hanging from a swing from which I plucked it and ate it whole, and b) a segue from savory-ish dinner into dessert land. I love dessert land. I want a condo in dessert land.

They brought over a pair of desserts that were fun and fruity and kind of girl-bandy. First was yogurt, pomegranate, cassia.
Cassia is a little bit like tamarind, unless you get one of the ones that has a poisonous seed, in which case it’s a little bit like a prison-shank. This was a ball of crusty outside, filled with a liquid yogurt that popped when you took the shot, in a pomegranate liqui-gel of some kind. It was fun to eat, and tasted much like those little DanActive shots they sell for immune system support, even though Chris says that’s a sham and gets really upset about it. Whatever, they’re delectable. The other sister in this pair was a glass tube filled with the flavors of bubble gum, long pepper, hibiscus, and creme fraiche. Honestly, it tasted exactly like bubblegum jelly, and was meant to be sucked completely in one breath (again, hehe). I don’t mean trashy bad bubble gum, though. Gourmet delicious bubble gum. And again, texturally fun.

The snooty sommelier came back to give us an Elio Perrone ‘Bigaro’, Piedmont, Italy 2008. It was pink and tasted like tutti-frutti. The service team brought over a big pillow filled with lavender air, and then placed a plate of rhubarb, goat milk, onion on top.
The weight of the plate pushed the air out of the pillow, so lavender smell whooshed out with every bite. It was pretty neat. And the dessert was great. Again, items that are definitively savory or sweet were bitch-slapped in the opposite direction. The onion was caramelized in flavor but not in appearance, and the gummy sweetness really added to the dish. The cotton candy substance was tangy and fun to eat, and the rhubarb styrofoam was tart and perfect, like nature herself had handcrafted it as a part of the rhubarb plant. And the goat milk? I didn’t detect it. There was a sweet milky substance (hehehehe), but no tin can anywhere to be found. The wine was perfect to make the rhubarb taste fruity, kind of functioning as the strawberry foil to the rhubarb.

The next plate was a chocolate, prune, olive, pine dish, served with the Olivares Dulce Monastrell, Jumilla, Spain 2004. The wine? Tasted EXACTLY like liquid raisins. And the dessert was pretty bitchin’ as well. The chocolate lifted up like a blanket to reveal piles of goo and powder that tasted like the sweet cousins of olive and pine, with prune tying the whole thing together. The pine “soup” to the right of the dish was perfect, too. I used it as a sort of creme anglaise, scooping up some of the pine ice cream quenelle, the soup, the chocolate blanket and the bounty underneath with each bite. And I drank my raisin. This dish sounds totally repulsive, but it was again immaculately conceived.

The coffee and tea came, and those of us who were pleasantly buzzed from all the wine and sated from all the food thought this signaled the end of the meal.

I love the china they haveWe had lost count. They placed a single copper-nickel disk on the table, which was pretty heavy. Kevin asked the waiter if it was for the spoon, and the waiter laughed and said it wasn’t. So we had no idea what the hell was going on when they brought out the final dish–a ball of sweet potato and brown sugar formed around a center of bourbon, fried, and served on a giant stick of cinnamon that was actually on fire.
The scent of the smoldering cinnamon was crazy with the other flavors, tasting like sweet potato pie on a stick. And when they were done gang-raping the credit cards, they let me tour the kitchen.

I’d say I could die happy now, but I can’t. Because they have a 24-course tasting menu, and I WANT IT. Plus, we have a great place to stay in Chicago, only a couple of blocks away. So why not, right? Maybe next time I won’t pretend I’m allergic to all non-shell fish…

A modern Easter celebration

True Chicago-style pizza–what would happen if regular pizza got up one morning and said, “you know what, self? Let’s try to be MORE DELICIOUS.” And then it did.

I just got back home from Chicago yesterday, which actually is like saying I got home today, since yesterday I was so Xanax-ed out the whole day after a morning plane ride that I only lifted my head to eat Cadbury eggs and PeiWei noodles. I mean that literally. Like, I actually lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness, while food was placed close to my head so I could eat without sitting up. For 12 hours. And then it was bedtime.

I was initially feeling pretty sorry for myself, since this was my first Easter away from home, and there were no crazy egg hunts or yelling at my sister about her shady North Korean candy-trading tactics, or…ham of any sort. But then in one of my moments of lucidity, Chris took me downstairs for a few minutes and he had surprised me by hiding eggs full of Reeses and Starburst all around the downstairs, as well as bought not one, but TWO of those giant baskets that have all the toys and candy all wrapped up in colorful cellophane to sit on our dining room table. Now, growing up, I thought that only poor children and/or children whose parents didn’t love them very much got those kinds of baskets. The ones at my house were lovingly hand-filled by the Easter bunny with our favorite things. But yesterday’s baskets? ADORABLE. One had a pink wand and a tiara in it, and the other was stuffed to the gills with little pink kitchen appliance toys. Oh, and he had purchased every remaining Cadbury creme egg in the city so I can hoard them for a few weeks. Chris is the sweetest thing, I swear to you.

As for Chicago, well, it was fantastic. So fantastic that I cried every time I thought about coming back to San Antonio. As it turns out, it’s not just Denver that is amazingly cool. It’s VIRTUALLY EVERY CITY BUT SAN ANTONIO! I had never been to a really big city, but I really, really, REALLY enjoyed Chicago. Now, I will grant you; I ate at the best restaurant in the universe (next post), I drank Guinness like a skeeving lush in wondrous little action-pubs that were only steps away from a) our front door and b) one another, I stayed in an incredible 4-story brownstone-y thing in the center of Lincoln Park with a private roof deck overlooking a breathtaking skyline, I could walk two blocks each morning to a tea store that is every bit as yuppie as Starbucks, but is WAY cooler and serves only complicatedly delicious tea-type drinks (here is a picture of some of there specials), and I had the company of numerous handsome doctors with zero women hanging around demanding use of my lipgloss. So my view may be tainted. But honestly.

It’s just blocks and blocks and blocks of these storybook row-houses, uniquely fabulous restaurants, painfully chic boutiques (like the Vosges haute chocolate boutique where I sampled things like coconut curry and dark chocolate bars shaped like bunnies–yum!). The people are attractive, like they haven’t given up on life, even if they’re thick, thin, old, young, rich, middle-class, what have you. The city has a pulse, as Chris wisely put it. And I loved it. And it was clean, and there was a two story Sur La Table. I could gush about this forever. Instead, I am going to post a few pics, and then write my post about Alinea, which deserves its own entry, if not its own universe.

The view from the back of the roof deck

Some of the cool-ass tea drink choices. I hate coffee, but love me some fun tea drinks!

Incredibly tasty gyros in Greektown. And Greek fries, which is apparently when they make you regular fries, and then have one of the Greek gods just kind of pee on it, that’s how tasty they were. Like mythological god pee.

I had never been to a White Castle. I will never again go to a White Castle. Unless corporate calls me and says “We are SO sorry! Some crazy prankster had broken into our control room and set out delicious-o-meter all the way down to ‘foot.’ It won’t happen again!”

Okay. Alinea either tonight or tomorrow. Probably tonight. Pinkie swear…ish.


Yesterday some culinary school kids, Chris, and I mustered up all of our white-trashery and ventured down to the Poteet Strawberry Festival for some straight up ruckus, as well as some “holyshitwhatrockdidyoucrawloutfromunder” people watching. Can I tell you how NOT disappointed I was? OMFG. I have NEVER seen so many people with FUPAs ripping hunks of flesh off of giant turkey legs with their few-and-far-between teeth. Wow. I had to join in. And drink copious amounts of beer.

The thing is, Poteet, TX is rural. Ru-ral. It’s mostly farmland and trailers, and the fire ant population is so monstrous that I would be in no way surprised to find out that the mayor of Poteet was actually a fire ant queen herself. Poteet’s claim to fame is that it’s the “strawberry capitol of Texas.” Good for you, Poteet, good for you. There was even a giant strawberry, with whom we took pictures.
Great stuff.

I came home with a solid 20 pounds of strawberries, at least. And while there, I consumed:
Strawberry ice cream (too creamy, if possible)
Strawberry wine (the liquid equivalent of bathtub meth)
Several Coors lights
One Bud light lime
One very large turkey leg

I did not consume a funnel cake with strawberry glop on it, because I couldn’t find that stand to save my life. I saw people walking around with these gorgeous funnel cakes, drowning in what looked like strawberry pie filling, and I wanted one with all of my soul, but no matter who I asked, nobody could tell me where to find one. Heartbreaking. I’m going to make them at school tomorrow, I think.

I bought an awesome drinking hat, and we did manage to locate a couple of memorable attractions.

First, we found a stall with the “world’s smallest woman.” It was a little walkaround booth that had people going through and gawking and peering around a box like it was a piece of unique furniture. It cost a dollar to get it. We, collectively, decided it was a gimmick, and dutifully paid our dollar. Inside, we found a teensy-weensy Hatian woman waving from a toddler chair. My soul has never felt dirtier. I tried to make small talk, so I didn’t feel like such an asshole, but it didn’t help. Honestly, I’m a worse person for having seen that.

Second, we found a petting zoo with some of the cutest friggin’ animals alive. Baby goats, for example. I got to cuddle with a goat so small it was pretty much still a fetus, and now I will never be able to eat goat again. Ever. It was all cuddly and warm and would lay on its back in your arms and nurse your finger. Here is a picture of both the baby goat and my awesome new hat: I also got to cuddle a piglet (not a bacon piglet, obviously, but a cuddling one). And a grown-ass goat tried to steal my hat. Fun stuff.

Oh, and Chris got to sit on a ride-a-mower, thus moving closer to his goal of having his own ride-a-mower someday, meaning he can stop pretending he’s going to go out and mow the lawn until I call the lawn service because I’m tired of watching him mope. At least, that’s the hope.

I’m going to spend tomorrow making jam, which I’m looking forward to, using the school equipment. For some reason, the school kitchen is easier to deal with than my own. All the stainless and mop buckets and hotel pans, I think. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted.

Get OUT of my mouth!

If I were to tell you that I had another mouth-related tragedy, would you believe me? I mean, after my surprise wisdom tooth removal, I basically felt that I had been wronged in every possible way, violated to my very core, and that I would likely be safe for a while. But nooooooooo. Today was WORSE.

I had an appointment to pick up my Invisalign. I ordered them about 5 weeks ago, and have been really anxious to straighten up my lower teeth before the wedding. Sure, I had braces as a child, but what self-respecting teenager heeds the wisdom re: retainer use? Not this one. Anyway, I was excited to pick them up and start being sexaaaay. Or “theckthaaaay” I suppose, since I am having a difficult time with the letter “s” at this point, with all this plastic in my mouth.

But as I sat in the chair, happily awaiting my key to oral beauty, I noticed the orthodontist fiddling with something. The hygienist then placed a pair of dark sunglasses over my eyes. They looked like Oakleys. Something was amiss. I then heard the revving, piercing, terror-inspiring sound of a drill. Apparently, in order to make all of my bottom teeth fit into my, well, bottom-teeth-arena, they have to “slenderize” some of the bottom ones. Cute. What are you going to do, Doc? Rub some TrimSpa on my teeth and hope for the best? Nope. What he was going to do, and then what he proceeded to do, was drill between my bottom teeth to remove enamel and create gaps between them. Which sounds like a terrible idea on a number of levels, least of which being that I was under the impression that my tooth enamel was the main substance protecting me from cavities. But there he was, happily drilling away without the benefit of Novocaine. It smelled like burning, I was absolutely RIGID with fear, and then, out of nowhere BAM!!! He hit a nerve. I started to cry, he moved on to another tooth. A couple of teeth later, POW!! More pain. But he just kept moving on to different teeth, while fat, mascara-colored tears slid down either side of my face (into my ears since I was on my back).

I am FURIOUS about this. I was just starting to get my big-girl-pants about dental procedures, and this assclown comes along and sets me back 15 years. What’s worse is that he’s an ORTHODONTIST. He’s not supposed to hurt me. He’s supposed to prettify me. Dentists are the ones who are supposed to come at me guns-a-blazin’ with instruments of torture. Plus, I was a little miffed that he told me he was “nowhere near a nerve” on the painful teeth, and that I “probably just have some slight heat sensitivity.” Yeah, fuck you, sir. How about I light your foot on fire and then tell you that you’re probably just a heat-sensitive little wussmobile? How ’bout that?! Sadly, he’s a highly respected orthodontist, so I can’t even call him a quack. Instead, I’m just going to refer to him as a sadist, and probably cry myself to sleep on the nights before appointments.

So now I’m at home, still very emotional and shaky, and I have this tray on my lower teeth so I can’t even eat a sizable hunk of my 10 lb chocolate bar to console myself. Which I’m pretty sure is going to be super for my abs, so maybe I should start looking on the bright side of this. But you know what else would be super for my abs, but probably hurt less? Liposuction.