Man vs. Super Bowl Food

I was in Sag Harbor last weekend watching the Super Bowl at my friend Sally’s family home. It was a classic Super Bowl party with a spread of food and beer that was fit for a king. I showed up hungry and I learned a few things about eating and myself that I’d like to share.

First off, I think I’m physically incapable of not eating food that has been home cooked by somebody. I just can’t say no. I think it’s rude to say no to home-cooked food, and for seconds, home-cooked food is always just so damned good.

So even though I was confident that I’d probably regret eating a plate of homemade spicy buffalo chicken wings, a plate of home-style macaroni and cheese, a plate of clam dip, a mountain of pigs in a blanket, guacamole, chocolate truffles, cookies and homemade brownies, I just had to say, “Sure I’ll try that.”

As I washed down my first plate of home-style macaroni and cheese with a can of Budweiser while sipping a scotch that “I had to try,” there was a moment when I found myself having a conversation with my stomach. It went something like this.

“David, what are you doing? Are you trying to kill me? Or is this just a practical joke?”

“Look stomach,” I said, “I’m not trying to kill you, but you’re going to have to suck it up and figure out how you are going to process these truffle chocolates mixing in with spicy wings. I can’t say no to them.”

“Dave, you don’t understand, none of these foods get along. Asking spicy buffalo wings, pulled pork BBQ sliders and clam dip to be friends down here is like asking a Montauk local to get along with Wall Street night owl, they just hate each other by nature.”

“Look, buddy, figure it out, because I’m going in for more clam dip.”

“Dear God! Not the clam dip! Oh God no! INCOMING! MAN THE TORPEDOS!”

I think I had just finished eating my fourth pulled pork slider when the lights went out at the stadium during the Super Bowl. I found myself concerned that I was possibly hallucinating from eating so much food, so I verified it with my buddy Mike

“Hey Mike, am I seeing things or did half of the lights just go out?”

“You’re not seeing things buddy, they really did.”

As I drank a glass of red wine and ate a Tate’s chocolate chip cookie and then had a few more buffalo chicken wings, I stared at the television in thought: this was an excellent opportunity to use the bathroom.

I slithered off of the couch, blobbed out of the living room and Jell-O burped towards the bathroom and closed the door. There was a moment where I remember looking into the mirror and noticed that I was sweating. I also was finding it increasingly difficult to get the clam dip stain off of my pants and the spicy wing sauce off of my face.

I was getting text messages from friends about the game, about how ridiculous it was that the lights at the Super Bowl had gone off. I attempted to write something clever back, but I think all I was able to say was, “Beyoncé is the man.”

I blibbered back into the living room and fat-plopped on the couch and continued to watch the game. My stomach was gurgling and then Sally came over to ask me if I was interested in some chocolates. “No thank you,” I said, “I’m very full and not feeling so good.”

“Are you sure? They are from Citarella!”

“Okay maybe just one.”

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