For the food writer of discerning taste, St. Patrick’s Day might not be a landmark holiday. If it is, it’s probably for a perfectly prepared meal or corned beef and cabbage or the home-cooked thrill of a good colcannon. Not me.

The roots of my fetish can likely be blamed on my mother’s refusal to grow anything but whimsical heirloom vegetables. Purple mashed potatoes were the norm in my house. I cannot get enough of unnaturally colored food. That green bagel from Cathy Resmer’s “Blurt” post? I ate it. I didn’t know it was famous.

I am also a sucker for a gimmick. The more blatant the branding, the more it turns me on. My favorite video games growing up starred Cool Spot (7-Up), Chester Cheetah and Ronald McDonald. Just as normal women moon over the likes of Brad Pitt, I have become comparably obsessed with Nannerpuss. James says that he is comfortable with the competition. St. Patrick’s Day is my favorite, as it brings me the dual patriarchs of my religion: Cookie O’Puss and Uncle O’Grimacey.

Cookie O’Puss is the Irish immigrant friend of Carvel’s New-York accented ice cream cake, Cookie Puss. Cookie Puss makes it clear that he is not related to that Mick. They are just friends. I’m pretty sure Cookie Puss is Italian. Whatever his country of origin, Cookie Puss bills himself as “The Celestial Person”. This either means that he is an alien or a deity. I choose the latter. Don’t tell Cookie Puss that he’s just Fudgie the Whale turned on his side with cookies for eyes and a cone for a nose. And certainly don’t let Cookie O’Puss hear that he’s just Cookie Puss with a green hat and pistachio ice cream in his cone. He has a temper.

Tragically, Cookie O’Puss will not be visiting Vermont this St. Patrick’s Day. The nearest Carvel is 100 miles away. The spirit of Uncle O’Grimacey – however – is at a McDonald’s near you. Though Ronald’s “slow” friend, Grimace, has long since gone the way of the Fry Guys, Mayor McCheese and that pirate thing, his uncle lives on in the form of the Shamrock Shake. Yep, due to much protest (not just from me), McDo has reinstituted the retro shake in select locations. ShamrockShake.com, a website devoted to tracking the drink’s availabilty, reports that you can get yours in Colchester, South Burlington and Essex Center. You better believe I will be raising a waxy cup filled with the vaguely green, vaguely minty supershake in memory of Uncle O’Grimacey today.

Bryce has a big family. Not like Catholic big, but with four adult kids, all partnered, it can feel that way. Bryce sometimes gets lost in the shuffle. That’s how we ended up being invited to dinner at 6:30 - four hours after our brunch reservation - on our way out the door to the Hyatt.

Obviously, we could not miss it. Bryce’s parents and one of her two sisters and her boyfriend were heading across the country the next day, the end of their extended family holiday. It was time to celebrate with the family that - from the age of eight or so - raised me as much as my own did. It was the first time that I had spent an extended period with Bryce’s parents in years. I adore her sisters, Jocelyn and Paige as if they were my own and had not seen them since May. The whole night was a love-fest, both with my adopted kin and tapas.

Barcelona is part of a small Connecticut chain. The Greenwich location has occupied the former home of one of my favorite Japanese restaurants for years. I had always been curious and tonight was my night.

Bryce and Seth wanted to spend a little quality time with their beautiful and brilliant 20-month-old son, Theo, so we departed for downtown Greenwich some time after the others. There was already a table full of treats when we arrived.

Since we had missed a few things already, Bryce’s mom, Cheryl, a huge supporter of my work and a writer herself, was adamant that nothing should be eaten until I had had time to photograph it. This did not always work out - things were coming too fast and I was eating too furiously. Those chorizo never had a chance. My apologies for the blurry pics - it was very dark in the cavernous wine bar.

The menu at Barcelona consists of tapas dishes and large plates. When you order a small plate, the next question is “Just one, or for the table?”

The first “for the table” dish placed in front of me was two piles of thick-cut, but tender sweet potato fries. I’m not usually a fan, but these had more character than normal and came with a revelatory honey and truffle goat cheese. See the chunks? Before I could photograph it, James and I gulped down a cumin-scented chicken empanada. It was tasty, but could certainly have been spicier, especially with the lovely guacamole beside it to play off.

Next, I dug into the brussel sprouts. I like brussels sprouts. I really do. Not a popular opinion, I know, but every leafy little layer delights me - if prepared well. These were. Moistened up with the fat of sauteed serrano ham well.

Hanger steak was perfectly lean, medium rare and beautifully seasoned, with a light, fresh salsa on one side. It was not the most interesting of our choices, yet little by little I made it disappear.

Manchego, probably my favorite of all sheep cheeses, came in adorable little wedges with a sweet pepper sauce a bit like Bosnian ajvar and some startlingly fresh figs. A tureen of chorizo with sweet and sour figs went unphotographed. The combination of the figs and spicy sausage in a balsamic sherry glaze, proved irresistible - and therefore evaded visual capture.

Even more figs poured onto the table in the form of a green bean salad. Covered in a sassy balsamic reduction, the beans, red peppers, blue cheese and of course, figs, combined for a balanced symphony of flavors usually equaled only in Thai food.

I personally ordered the jalapeno pork pinxto, and am proud that I did. Some others at the table found it a tad spicy, but it was my favorite meat of the night. The pork was cooked perfectly. Were it one tenth of a degree less, it would have been undercooked. The cumin and turmeric mixed with each juicy bite. The puddle of fresh, ultra-garlicky chimichurri managed to add to the dish. Not for a moment did it seem excessive or dominant.

I also chose some emu filet, seared and prepared in a mild sauce a l’espagnole and covered in capers. I keep a running list of animals I have eaten on my Facebook page and am always excited to add a new one, which at this point, is no small feat. I had had ostrich, but never emu. Perhaps it was because it was prepared more skillfully than ostrich dishes I have tried, but I preferred the smaller cousin. The taste was more iron-y, more substantial. Somewhat like venison.

Strangely, both James and I declared Herbed Goat Cheese with Wild Mushrooms our favorite of the plates. Strange for me, because it was not meat. Strange for James because on his own time, he does not eat mushrooms or goat cheese. But it was irresistible. The mushrooms were chewy and flavorful enough to be meat and the goat cheese was decadently creamy and blended magically with balsamic-red wine sauce. All in all, the result was like the best, most sophisticated boeuf bourgignon ever.

At this point, Bryce and Cheryl left to put little Theo to bed. As if that wasn’t already enough food for the reduced crowd, Bryce’s dad, Ron, ordered two of a dish called Parrillada - an Argentine mixed grill designed for two people. For two people to share as their whole meal, that is.

The tender half chicken, double-thick pork chop and the tender-as-ground beef entrecote were rubbed in rock salt and little else - much like Brazilian churrasco, one of my favorite things in the world. A “gaucho sausage” only lightly ground, with at times thumb-sized chunks of pork rounded out the heavy carving board covered in meat. Some light, crispy papas fritas came on the side. I dipped them in the accompanying chimichurri. The meat was too tasty on its own to ruin with sauce.

I have issues with food peer pressure. At this point, I was already literally fighting for breath after downing Kobayashi-like quantities throughout the day. Then Paige decided to order dessert. If there was more food on the table, I wanted some, too. James and I shared a plate of churros. Or rather, something that looked like a fancy tissue box of churros. It was paired with a cup of the best hot chocolate I ever had. The strong dark chocolate flavor was beautifully offset with a hearty dash of cinnamon and just the right amount of chile. And it was so thick as to almost be considered a solid. Just what my stomach needed.

Later that night we all participated in a spirited game of Taboo. My team lost. I plead overindulgence.

Hyatt, Sheraton, Marriott - what’s the difference, right? If you’re talking about the Greenwich Hyatt Regency, there’s a huge one. It’s in the former Condé Nast offices, a veritable fortress off I-95. The building itself is so iconic that they will send it up to you as room service - in chocolate form, that is.

The lobby is like a botanical garden. If what you’re treading on is not carpeted, it is either grass or part of the brook that runs through the massive space - don’t walk in there. All light is natural in the daytime. It’s just like being outside, but the temperature is controlled and I don’t get skeeved out.

Brunch at the Hyatt is a thing of beauty. Poetry in motion. The motion of mastication. Or just getting up to take a whiz and looking by to see this.

The Sunday that we partook of brunch with my lifelong best friend Bryce and her husband, Seth, though, something was afoot at the Hyatt Regency. “The Convention of Death”, Bryce called it. As we parked, a nearby truck was loading the head of a springbok. And the full, taxidermied remains of . . . something else. Did I mention that Bryce was vegan until two years ago? Brawny middle-aged guys pushed piles of guns as high as they were into the building on dollies. Apparently it was an antique weapons and hunting sale. Not quite the image for which we had prepared our friends.

Once in the lobby, and across a footbridge to Winfield’s, Bryce and Seth saw what I had been raving about for all this time. How could they not? The Bloody Mary bar was well-stocked and the chocolate fountain was creating wild truffled rapids. Not that they drink. Or eat dessert.

They were of course, suitably impressed, but as actors, pigging out is simply not an option. There is already a Cameron Mannheim and a Jorge Garcia, so my friends have to stay thin. They each took only one Atkins-friendly plate. At $55 a person, James and I had a duty to eat their money’s worth as well.

Even though it was 2:30, I thought it suitable to start with breakfast. Some meltingly crisp and fatty bacon, an explosively tender sausage with perfectly snappy skin, some parsley-dotted scrambled eggs, cheese blintzes buried in fresh berries. . . lovely, but there was a greater mountain to be climbed: the Make-Your-Own Pancake Bar.

Bananas, strawberries, white and semisweet chocolate chips, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries . . . How to decide? I decided not to limit myself too much. I went with blueberries, raspberries and chocolate chips. I’m glad I did. Best. Pancake. Ever. The batter stayed surprisingly light around the combination of tangy but sweet berries and the earthier, more bitter, but even more sweet chocolate. James got his with white chocolate and agreed that they were tops.

The carving table was directly adjacent to the pancake station, so while the griddle did its magic, I also sprung for hunks of lean ham, nicely balanced between sweet and salty and flavorful, toothsome beef.

Then I went back for more. One of my most enduring early food memories is of the pasta station at the Winfield’s brunch. It is where I discovered the magic of garlic. It is still the first question that the gentleman preparing pasta to your specifications asks. “Of course. A lot,” is always my answer. Though my traditional chicken was oddly absent, the penne was the same, as was the melodious mix of creamy, but not excessively cheesy or heavy alfredo, pesto and just a touch of fresh marinara. The comforting combo covered a mix of squash, artichokes and sundried tomatoes. Bryce and Seth admired, and even dared to taste a bite of squash each. They just couldn’t help it, it smelled too good.

Some sauteed chicken and fish dishes over wild rice came in a blur after the previous glories. James stocked up on sushi from the gorgeous layout, right beside the salad, which we roundly ignored. By the time dessert came around, the table was mostly cleared out. We missed out on creme brulée, but I was able to take my first-ever dip in a chocolate fountain. There is no way to fuck up chocolate and strawberries. Marshmallows and graham crackers, however, merely dipped in liquid chocolate, do not a s’more make. All the little foofy cream-puffy things I tasted blended together on palate and in mind. The chocolate mouse, a tiny mound of mousse covered in ganache with ears and a face, was a stand out. Fortunately, I managed to score the last of them.

With each additional plate we took, Bryce and Seth applauded our iron stomachs. We do do fairly impressive work, though this was not our best. We had to save room for dinner. By the time we finished brunch at 4:30, that was in . . .  Jesus, two hours . . . !

For non-Vermonters, a quick primer: The area known as the Northeast Kingdom has a personality of its own. The most sparsely populated area in a farm state, people don’t really see other people that much. They speak in a patois quite different from other Vermonters - somewhere between a Maine accent and the abominable snowman. Bigfoot from the Howard Stern Show is a resident. The classic novel, Stranger in the Kingdom is about what happens when a black person enters the realm.

This is key. There were plenty of yahoos when James and I attended First Night festivities in the city of St. Johnsbury. It’s a cute little town, little changed since the turn of the last century. There’s an old natural history museum called the Fairbanks, a real live cabinet of curiosities, full of intensely unrealistic taxidermy. I love it. There was a show that night at their Planetarium. For a flat fee of ten dollars, participants in the First Night program can attend any number of performances and activities. The Planetarium was sold out, so we ended up at a space usually reserved for AA meetings, watching fat teenage girls sing “Baby Bumble Bee” and complain when an older woman dared to sing a song as ancient as “The Rose”.

We also saw a truly magical marionette show based on The Hobbit and listened to an old man accompany a Laurel and Hardy movie on a church organ. However, the main event for me was a kind of modern Stranger in the Kingdom. Jamaican food. In Vermont. In St. Johnsbury, Vermont.

Other church basements were serving spaghetti suppers and the like, but North Church had the right idea. Genuine Jamaican Catering was serving to a packed house. Cafeteria style, the family business, run by genuine Jamaican Derrick Samuels, was offering plates of food for $9. Most people had a barbecue chicken leg or slice of jerk pork over rice and beans and a sauteed cabbage slaw. But I couldn’t decide. And they didn’t make me. I had everything: the sweet and vinegary barbecue chicken, the moist and smoky (though bland for my taste) jerk pork loin, curried chicken and my favorite, curried goat. I had not had goat in years - I did not remember what I was missing. What an animal – a bit gamy, but so tender, so uniquely flavorful! The curry was quite mild, but creamy, aromatic and wonderful.

Since I had only spent $9 on such a feast, I sprung for a beef patty, too. The crust was meltingly buttery and dessert-level sweet, which balanced nicely with the peppery beef. Maybe it was once again my distance from any other Jamaican food, but I think it was the best beef patty I’ve ever had.

There were unlimited drinks, too. I had never tried sorrel before. Apparently “sorrel” in Jamaica is not the plant that it is in the US. What they call “sorrel”, we call “roselle”, which is sort of “sorrel” inside out. It is a member of the hibiscus family, and the juice betrayed this. Closer in taste to mulled wine than anything else, it was a unique non-alcoholic sip. It paled in comparison, though, to the ginger beer. I had anticipated that this would be a carbonated beverage, but was surprised to taste ginger - pure ginger juice. The initial sip was sweet with a deep burn as I swallowed. Bit by bit, my innards were warmed. After two cups, I was ready to take on the low single-digit weather, no longer feeling so much a stranger in the kingdom.

Portland, Maine is a food town. I think. We were only there for half a day, following a supremely uneventful night on Peak’s Island. We had won an overnight stay at the Inn on Peak’s Island at pub quiz. The shabby chic suite was fabulous, with cathedral ceilings, a whirlpool and canopy bed, but there is nothing to do on the whole island. We met this cat: That was the highlight.

Once back on the mainland, we wandered along the waterfront for a while. James bought some Bailey’s flavored fudge in one of the dozens of tourist shops dominating that part of town. The goal, though, had been in my mind for months: 43 Middle Street, home of Duckfat.

What’s with the gross-sounding name? There is nothing yucky to me about a pound of duck flesh. It is only in the last few years that I have discovered duck to be my favorite animal to eat, but now I cannot get enough.

I am a bad, dirty whore for duck confit. I have never met one I didn’t want to put in my mouth. And you need lots of fat to make such a monster of tender crispness.

The use of shpeck does not end there. No, with a name like Duckfat, it better be in every fucking dish. They don’t quite reach such heights, but they come close in one dish: The fearsome duck poutine. Duck fat-fried potatos, smothered in duck gravy with chewy pillows of Silvery Moon cheese curds stretched throughout. I am not usually a huge poutine fan, as I am very particular about the crispness of my fries. Maybe it was the mighty viscosity of the duck fat, but these fries did not lose the snap even when drenched in gravy. The lard lent a sweet, uniquely savory flavor to frites and gravy alike. This was further evidenced by the cone of plain fries that we ordered, which were earth-shatteringly accompanied by a richly truffled ketchup and curry mayonnaise, the remains of which still live in my freezer, to be sparingly used as needed. I would pay a lot of money if they manufactured jars of their dipping sauces.

James chickened out (sorry) and got a beautiful corn chowder - no duck involved. His chocolate milkshake was like a grown-up Wendy’s Frosty - super-thick, but deeply creamy and chocolaty. I tried a housemade strawberry and hyssop soda. It had none of the cloying sweetness or chemical sourness of other strawberry sodas I’ve tried. This really tasted like a carbonated strawberry with a note of mint added by the hyssop. I would love another, but would very much like to experiment with their mint and lime or cream soda next time.

Main courses seemed like an afterthought in the wake of the revelatory sides, but the duck had yet to give of its whole self. The duck confit panino came spread with an apricot ginger chutney. To fully express this perfection, an aside about me: I keep dried apricots on my night table. If I get hungry in the middle of the night, which I often do, I peel a few of the suckers out of the container and satisfy the beast. I put ginger in everything from savories to sweets. It is one of my very favorite flavors on earth. It was like they knew I was coming. The argument was further bolstered in their choice of Cab Calloway and Louis Armstrong tunes, to which I rocked out while waiting for the next sensation.

And what a Flashdance feeling it was! Spiced sugar beignets with a side of spicy chocolate. No explanation necessary - right? Crisp sweet and spicy balls of fluff dipped in a gooey chile chocolate sauce.

Frankly, we didn’t come across that much else it Portland to necessitate another trip, but believe me. We will be back. I have the T-shirt to prove it.

Every year I look forward to the last week of August, when the Champlain Valley Fair rolls into Essex, VT. I like to touch animals (always above the belt), see dog sombreros and naughty T-shirts for sale and of course, eat food. Fair food. Fried fair food. My first stop is always Chris and Tam’s. A middle-aged married couple, they and their teenage daughters cannot lower their arms to their sides. They are that big. Almost wider than tall. Which augurs excellent victuals. Fair food can become prohibitively expensive very quickly. A $7 a la carte burger needs fries and a drink before you can even considers chowing down on pizza flavored fried dough. That is part of what is so special about Chris and Tam’s. $6.50 gets you large fries, a soda and a dozen chicken nuggets. And what nuggets! They could possibly be stolen from the freezer at McDonald’s. They are very, very similar, yet somehow better. Like artisanal McDonald’s, made from chickens in the 4-H tent. I had my Chris and Tam’s fix on the first day of the fair, when I had to ride ten of the midway rides for work. Click here for the video and accompanying article detailing my travails. A few days later, James and I returned to dine in earnest. For the ten years I have lived in Vermont, I always admired this sign: But James and I usually go to the fair late at night, when it’s free to enter, and the London Broil is all gone. Not this year. This year, I dug into this mo-fo: James was horrified that I was getting a cheese steak, period. But I made it worse by adding mushrooms and Velveeta. It was a strange contrast - the mushrooms were out of the can and the cheese food was - cheese food. The steak, however was high quality - lean, well-cooked and nicely seasoned. A very strange contrast, but the soft Wonder Bread-ish bun tied it all together. But “doing the fair” means having more than one meal at a time. I parked myself at the Elk’s Club booth to double-fist my hoagie and some of their delightful honey-stung fried chicken. The chicken itself was moist with a perfectly crispy, sweet and salty coating. The fries that came with it, though, were what I call “Vermont fries”. Few fry makers in Vermont seem to be aware of blanching. As a result, the fries come out soggy and starchy with unbecomingly sweet notes. Such was the case with the Elk’s Club. Luckily James had gotten the Alice Special at Chris and Tam’s, so I could partake of their perfect soft inside/crisp outside steak fries. That was to accompany his sausage and pepper from Mr. Sausage, sold to him by the guy he refers to as “Kool Aid lips”. It was already dark by the time I was done visiting with my pals at Old McDonald’s Farm, particularly the Scottish Highland cow. The lights of the Apple Farm wooed James toward it for some pie. Not just pie, pie a la mode with heavy caramel sauce. Imagine jello wrestling in an apple crisp and you’ll have some idea of the sensory experience. I asked every booth at the fair if they would deep fry a pizza slice or Twinkie for me, but all my work was for naught. I had to settle for Oreos. What made it okay was a stroke of brilliance involving the counter girl slathering a ketchup bottle of chocolate sauce and powdered sugar atop the molten nuggets. So gross, but since when do I have a problem with gross? There were other pleasures to be had at the fair, of course. It can all be summed up thus:

Sometimes the dim sum gods smile, sometimes they do not. When you have to wait half an hour for a table for two, you know they’re pleased. Of course, we might not have sat around listening to hear our number called in Mandarin, French and English had we not been at our favorite, La Maison Kam Fung.

They may have been too busy to give us water without begging the manager, but with dim sum it doesn’t matter. It’s like fast food, you just ask for the already prepared stuff out of the cart. Our problem: We always blow our was early on. Everything looks so good, we can’t wait to see what else is coming. Not that it’s much of an issue when everything is so good.

Whether at KFC (or in French Canada, PFK), or Maison Kam Fung, I always trust food served in a bucket. As always, I was correct to accept the bucket of pork spare ribs and rice. Butchered cross-wise, the rings of fatty meat were ultra savory, more umami in flavor than anything else, with no detectable hint of herbs or spices. The sticky white rice beneath was blanketed in drippings from above and oh so delicious.

James’ favorite appeared next. Frankly, I don’t know what their Chinese name is. We call them Chinese crepes, but really they’re more like rice noodle manicotti. Inside are chunks of beef or char siu pork (we always get both), mixed with vegetables and bathed in a hoisin-based sauce. The textural interplay is like no other. I salivate even now, thinking of it. The pork is sweeter and more importantly has no water chestnuts (which James and I both dislike), unlike the beef one.

Another great dish lessened by water chestnuts were the beef meatballs. Just look at them! They were dense as could be, like my favorite Vietnamese specimens, but huge. The sauce was a comforting gravy. The only thing wrong was the interruption of a snap of water chestnut. Just wrong.

That was not the only dense ball of the meal. James was frightened and awed of the crab claw, but felt the need to try it, having recently realized that he likes crab. Picking up the fried ball by its protruding claw, he bit in and adored it. It was so heavy he was unsure he would finish, but he did and considered getting a second.

To get some vegetables other than water chestnuts into the mix, James ordered a plate of stuffed tofu, which shocked and insulted me - when I make tofu, he will never eat it. The exterior of the tofu had the leathery crispness of a pan-fried dumpling, but further in, was more akin to an omelet. Stuffed with mushrooms and scallions, the little pockets were comforting and mild. We were both surprised at how much we liked them.

Then my life changed forever. It is no secret that I am mildly obsessed with char siu buns of all kinds. Never before, though, had I experienced them wrapped in puff pastry. Somewhere between a Wellington and a croissant, the coating transformed the meat from a gal you would take to meet you mother into a wild, freaky bedroom-only kind of chick. Already stuffed, I had no choice but to order a second plate.

I was disappointed not to see my beloved taro dumplings, so we went ahead with the gooey, sesame-coated red bean buns. As with the meatballs, the server snipped them in half with a pair of scissors. So sweet, and so gloriously textural. Of course, it was only then, when we had given them our credit card that some of my taro babies passed by. James encouraged me to got for it, but I was sufficiently full that I did something that will forever shame me: I didn’t eat them. I’m sorry to my readers, the dumplings and me.

To make up for it, we left and bought piles of buns, sticky rices and cookies of all kinds from my fave diner beneath Kam Fung, Dobe and Andy. All told, I took home sixteen dollars worth, with no individual treat ringing up at more than a Loonie. And as always, they were all awesome. Here is the most beautiful (though not my favorite), a sausage work of art.

With little room left for my customary bubble tea, I went out on a limb. For years I had walked right past the dragon beard man. Today I would pay him a visit. What is a dragon beard? It’s a sight to see as an old man swiftly bundles sugar into thousands of strands that look like super-thin fiberglass shredded wheat. Inside are finely chopped peanuts, sesame seeds and coconut. Considering the whole thing is essentially sugar, I was bemused that it wasn’t particularly sweet. The texture was fun, and the craftsmanship was remarkable, but it was more of a work of art than a dessert. The beard is weird. All the same, like a creepy erotic dream, I can’t stop thinking about the beard.

After all these weeks of waiting for the final repairs, my car was declared a total loss. It was my first car, and I had grown attached to it. On the way to empty it of its contents, I whispered to James, “I feel like I’m getting ready to identify a body.” I was stressed. So what do we emotional eaters do under such conditions, ladies and gentlemen? We eat! In bulk!

When dealing with auto-related freak outs, there is only one place to go. I went there when I failed my drivers’ test and I knew it was the perfect destination that night as well: The Hoagie Hut. Placed in a section of Colchester, Vermont to which I refer as “Old Crappy”, the Hut is across the street from the Sunset Drive-in Movie Theater and a redneck karaoke bar. It shares shopping center space with a video store that sells people’s home videos. Entering the “restaurant” for the first time, I was greeted by this, and knew they would ease my spirits:

The menu is one of the strangest I have ever seen. Though they specialize in cheese steaks, The Hut also sells filet mignon and high-end fish dishes. It is as easy to walk up to the counter and get a meal for $6 as it is to get one for $30. I was willing to split the difference. I ordered two dinners. The counter man was horrified, then amused that I persisted in ordering a plate of fried chicken along with my mushroom and steak hoagie, but I suppose he eventually decided I must be pregnant.

Despite Mr. Hoagie’s warnings, I could never have expected the size of the sandwiches presented to us. James liked his sweet Italian sausage with peppers and onions, but couldn’t finish even half. Warrior that I am, I started with a fork, plucking delicious, greasy beef and tender mushrooms from the mess. As soon as enough filling was gone, I held the precariously soft bun to mouth and chowed down. The traffic sign-yellow cheese was a nice touch, adding a very complimentary flavor and texture to the whole.

Just as I finished the first half of my hoagie, the chicken came. I did not ask, because the staff seemed a bit abrasive, but I assume that the chicken was frozen. I did not have high hopes. What I got was some of the best fried chicken I’ve ever had. The delicate batter broke like shattering glass with every juicy bite. The coating was flavorful, but not excessively salty. The side of steak fries similarly gave me confidence in the frozen food industry. Crispy on the outside and soft as a mound of creamy mashed potatoes on the inside, the coronary-busting treasures made a steak fry believer out of me.

And guess what? Though my body felt stuffed in every possible direction, I did feel more relaxed. Psychologists will tell you that eating is ineffective as stress relief. They are liars.

See?

I went to Sunday brunch at the Inn at Essex in Essex, VT for my grandmother’s 82nd birthday. I don’t have that much to say about the food, but the ice sculptures were awesome. James used to work there, and in that time, we rarely saw ice sculptures of anything but swans. I don’t know what happened this particular Sunday, but there were a lot of complaints. I say, “Rock on!”

I was wearing my trademark cleaver necklace, which I acquired shortly after my stint as a butcher. Obviously, this was some sort of sign.

Pub quiz, once again has been good to me. The prize a few months ago was free passes to the New England Barbecue Championships at the Harpoon Brewery in Windsor, VT. I knew it was going to be awesome, but I was still pleased to be greeted by this (with me, tastefully making like the late Chris Benoit), after our long walk from our parking spot, which was so far away, some people made use of a shuttle from the lot to the gates.

We had had no indication that it was the event that it turned out to be; nothing less than a porcine necropolis. Everywhere I looked, people trudged, zombie-like with pig pieces hanging from their maws. I wanted in, but there was work to be done first. The booths were tightly packed into about a half of a square mile. That is a very small space in which to cram 43 booths, all with clever/queer themes. I found this one especially odd (are the pigs robots in disguise?), but the design is good and they were ranked in most categories.This is the one that would best describe me, though:

The air was barely breathable, it was so filled with delicious, Babe-scented smoke. Mulleted fat-asses jostled us at every turn. but James and I were on a mission: Eat the greatest variety of ‘Q with the least likelihood of reversal at day’s end. We parked ourselves next to this table and began the rounds in earnest.

Forget who was winning awards. The question was “Who has a combo platter?” Smoking Fools Barbecue of Braintree, VT, wherever the hell that is, had the correct answer indeed. Look at that fat shimmering lasciviously in the sun. The ribs required a little finessing to avoid getting a mouthful of schpeck, but the rub and sauce combined well for a sweet, mild rib. The sausage, somewhere between a sweet Italian and a breakfast was full of herbs, rubbed with a paprika-scented powder and delicious enough to inspire the smile in the photo. The pulled pork was the winner, though, smokily rendered to a perfect nest of tender pig flesh. The fries beneath were startlingly good. Even beneath the moisture of several former sows, they stayed wonderfully crisp. The drippings from above did not hurt either.

While I dug into the first plate, James went to Lakeside Smokers, of Methuen, MA for these bad boys:

Yes, the slider on the right does contain meatballs. Barbecue meatballs? No. Why? Dunno. Especially since they didn’t really have any taste. Continuing to the left, the pulled pork was a little bland, though the sweet and slightly spicy sauce that James added gave it some life. The brisket sandwich was very peppery. Unpleasantly peppery, until I realized that beneath the pepper lay a familiar taste, not unlike my childhood favorite, Tengu Beef Jerky.

He got what purported to be a “Rib Sampler Platter” at Q Haven of Norwich, CT, but those wannabe Yalies lied. I hope nobody ever lets them in to see the mummy at the Peabody, because they sold James a plate of three identically prepared ribs. I will concede that the one variety was very good- marinated in vinegar, with a sticky, caramelized crust.

We also sampled our free Harpoon beverages, a root beer and a cream soda. The cream soda was a little saccharine for me, but the root beer was among my all-time favorites. Always a caretaker, James wanted to make sure we had a balanced meal. That’s why he got the choices at left. The mac and cheese was Stouffer’s, which I tend to find mushy and excessively sauced. I hesitate to come down too hard on the fact that the cheese tastes artificial, I could never look Velveeta in the eye if I did, but that was some shitty artificial cheese. The pretzel just made me thirsty, but it was quite soft, so I think it was good. The corn was tender and well-buttered, but James thought that it tasted a little on the young side.

The cookie would be left for later while I found myself what I knew I needed from Merrick, NY’s BBQ Brethren. What did I need? Something bigger than my head.I had never had barbecued turkey before and was very excited, then in short order, very disappointed. As you can see, it was difficult to make the first bite- and all the bites that followed. The thing was texturally like wood and tasted like the embers with which it was cooked. That is why James is shaking his head disapprovingly. I assumed at the time that turkey is just too lean to take to smoking, but my brother Volodia, who is about to spend a few weeks preparing barbecue at Dollywood, told me that when well-prepared, such a dish is a thing of beauty.

I ended the day with something that was indeed just that. I will eat anything if it has been battered and deep fried. It was not the first time that I had fried Oreos, but it was the best, not least because it was presented by this guy:

Imagine a chicken nugget, but with a molten Oreo center, and you’ve got a pretty good idea.

Having traveled all that way, Oreos in lap, we headed to the birthplace of Vermont- the inn where the state’s constitution was drafted. Then we visited to the home at which Mormon founder, Joseph Smith was born. All in all, the day was a testament to the rich history of Vermont and all those who have died to make the state great. Especially my barnyard pals.