guilty pleasure


When I first saw Mr. Mom, you know that scene where he’s done being a sad bastard and he turns his frown upside-down and makes dinner for his special breadwinner lady? There was a magical moment when this fabulous rice nest thing pops up from the wok—for years and years I wondered what that was. I threw a lot of Asian noodles into oil and had a lot of gross messes to clean up.

Eventually I tried rice vermicelli. And it worked and I was hooked. For longer than I’m comfortable admitting, I’ve been eating this stuff like it was popcorn. Not as a bed for a saucy stir fry, not as a crunchy topping on a salad. I seriously fry this stuff up, salt it, and chow down.

It’s ridiculous. There’s next to no flavor. It’s messy and gives the apartment that fried smell. My cat tries to muscle her way in or just distract me so she can steal it. I can’t explain it, but I just love it. If I were told I could never have it again, I wouldn’t cry, but I would be a little sad. I guarantee I would think about it from time to time and a quiet smile would come to my face.

We all have our guilty pleasures.

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