4(ish) down 36 to go.
9.30.11: Jaxx Steakhouse. Blackened chicken salad with crab-stuffed mushrooms
|(see that wee guy in the front? he’s the first one I ate)|
The first bite was ok.
For the sake of the experiment (aka: “The List”), I didn’t swallow it down all quick-like (like when I was a kid trying to clean my plate before Dad tied me to the chair. But that’s another story.) I chewed slowly, allowing my tongue and taste buds to experience (and possible savor?) this new taste in my mouth.
As I said, the first bite was ok; non-whelming at best. So I immediately speared a second ‘shroom. It, too, was ok. And, I must say, I was feeling mighty cocky. Halfway through the third bite, however, the novelty suddenly wore off, and knew if I didn’t fully ingest soon, the entire restaurant would be seeing bites 1-3 again. In living color. (Or in shades of mushroomy gray, in this case.)
All of which leads me to determine–once and for all…
I don’t like mushrooms.
Now, I can see how some people might consider this first attempt a FAIL. But the exercise wasn’t to necessarily prove that–because of my finicky ways–I’ve been missing out on this major deliciousness my whole life. The exercise was to try something new. And be brave about it.
Therefore: Huge success. HUGE.
So I’ll say it again….
I don’t like mushrooms!!
Those of you who know me, know that–although I LOVE bananas with a grand passion–I have an even grander passion about how I eat them. Or rather how I WILL NOT eat them.
The wills: peel the banana myself and eat immediately.
The will nots: basically every other way. No banana bread, no bananas foster, no banana pudding, no banana cream pie, no fried peanut butter & banana sandwich, no bananarama…
You get the point.
But this is war.
Braums dessert is my krytonite, so I figured it was a safe place to conduct tonight’s experiment. And if there were any potential mishaps, like yesterday’s mushroom near-debacle, I would at least have three scoops of ice cream to cheer me up.
Allow me to set the scene:
The night was warm, the hour was late. My partner-in-crime and I were sitting outside in her Chevy Malibu–because the inside of beloved Braums is always too cold and smells like rotten bacon. Said banana split was balancing on my knees. I started at the vanilla side, bravely loading up my white plastic fork with a little something from every layer.
I was a bit worried about the slime-factor/mushiness, of the banana but–perhaps because of its near-frozen state–the texture was rather……perfect.
I loved it.
And, although I didn’t finish the entire thing (it was huge, mind you, and I’d just eaten a plate of fish n’ chips from a neighborhood Irish Pub we just found), I pretty much kicked the crap out of that sundae.