During a recent trip to Costco, a customer walked past me with 25 cases of Diet Coke in their wagon. Even by Costco standards that seemed a wee bit gluttonous. But who was I to judge? I was there to buy a pork loin the size of an anaconda. At the end of my shopping spree, my three year old son was cranky and hungry, and if I didn’t stop at the Costco food court to feed him I would’ve driven home down highway 100 with a god damn badger in the back seat.
So I ordered up a jumbo hot dog, a jug of frozen yogurt, and something called a chicken bake. The calzone crust of the chicken bake had cheese melted on the outside and then was stuffed full of chicken, cheese, and bacon. It was like the seven deadly sin rolled up into one delectable crime and made edible. I gorged on the baked delight so fast I almost puked on my son. Sitting there at the metal picnic table, wrapped inside that steel cage décor, I’ve never in my life felt sicker or happier.
How lame is my middle aged life when the highlight of my week is a baked chicken dish?
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