Store's On Hold, Peeps

Got your hankies on hand?

Well, snuffle right on into them, folks. Big, gloppy, goo-filled blubbering is anticipated with my new announcement.

After much (re: 3 days) of deep (re: spur of the moment) thinking, I have come to the somewhat painful conclusion to put my vintage Etsy store, PickPosh, on a brief sabbatical.

Listen folks. It's not me. It's you. Well, ok. Not you in particular. But the you in the great wide world of the Internet.

The past two months have been a bit ... well, hatertots, to be precise. In a time when I'm focusing on academia and my health, I can't handle trying to simultaneously juggle requests from some ol' bat who wants me to give her a large discount on a designer vintage hat because the hat reminded of her long-deceased dog. I know, because I got to see pictures of the dead dog in question. MANY. PICTURES. OF. DEAD. DOGS. This is just one example of what I've dealt with in the last few weeks, and honestly, it's been pooping me out.

Now, I don't want to leave my lovely, loyal, and absolutely deeeeelightful PickPoshers in the lurch, because, for realz, there are WAY more of you SWELL folks then there are of the from HELL folks. So, I've come up with a step-by-step plan for the next two months:

1) Get more pedicures
2) Sleep in until my husband brings me the coffee needed to stir my senses
3) Take more pictures of my cats in their new made-to-order holiday bows
4) Write in my journal for a change instead of just finger mashing out whatever comes to mind and then pushing "send" to dispatch it to the world at large
5)  Tackle a new task of writing grants for my research lab
6) Tour the great metropolis that is my home, Atlanta
7) Keep writing my novel
8) Meditate and breathe
9) Continue to buy only the best for PickPosh's return
10) And, finally, stop, take another deep breath, determine if I am ready to give y'all my all again, and if I am, then hotdiggity, we'll be back in business.

And don't worry. I'm already thinking of my return. Just yesterday, I bought this:

As I see it, there's nothing better than never-been-worn, tags-still-on, still-in-the-pretty-blue-box vintage Tiffany. And that, folks, is what I'll be bringing back when I return.

Truly, I hate leaving  a month or two, but I need it, folks. I just do. As you know, I recently recovered from the serious side effects of thyroid tumor, as well as a crippling lady's malaise known as ploycystic ovarian syndrome. Both come with depression and panic disorders, and I figured we'll all feel more peachy if I took some me time to work on healing.

Please don't think this means the end of snarky blog posts. Quite the contrary. Those are cathartic to me. And I'll keep my Facebook page updated, so you can see a) what I've been buying, b) what I think you should be buying, and c) a new fun series titled, "I bought it, but I just can't sell it; A look at my vintage home." (If you haven't yet, run on over to my PickPosh Facebook page and like it right away. You won't regret it. I'm equally charming there, as well.)

In the meantime, if there are any particular topics you'd like to address -- a series on how to make vintage suitcases look cool, an article on why Enid Collins purses are so popular and elusive, how to start estate-saling yourself, how to properly dress your dapper kitten, etc., PLEASE let me know. I want to please you!

That being said, I'm leaving you with this sappy advice poster. Normally, I'd do so with snark, but, for once, I'm serious. This touched me (but not in a bad uncle way), and I've found myself taking more and more of these tips and incorporating them into my life. Hopefully, by the time PickPosh is back (note: PickPosh is an entity separate from A Study of Stuff, which will continue uninterrupted), you'll see a refreshed, more hippie me. And while you're at it, see if you can get some of that joy for yourselves, too. All of y'all need a little more love. Peace out!

Caturday!

Drat.

It's not Saturday anymore. And that kind of ruins my whole "Caturday" pun, but I was busy this weekend, so I've decided that it's pawsitively clawsible that today is purrrhaps the purrrrfect day for a cat-related blog. At least, I'm feline up to it.

*Giggles at self*

Okay. No more cat puns. Paw to God.*

Anyway, this post seemed like a no-brainer. Cats+theInternet=awesomesauce. Or at least, the news (mews) is telling me so.

No, really, the Internet cat craze has literally been officially reported as its own economy. Read more here: Because I'm Not Kidding. Like, for real, actual business people with actual business degrees recently hosted an actual business panel called "Cat Cash: The Economy of Internet Cat Videos."

Apparently famous Internet cats such as Maru and Grumpy Cat are sort of the cat's meow (sorry; that isn't even a pun as much as it is a bad cliche.) Maru has more than 175 MILLION MONETIZED VIEWS while Grumpy Cat is getting its OWN FEATURE FILM. What the hell? The Kardashians can't even get that done.

And, check this out, there are ENTIRE web sites dedicated to the cats news industry (I'm Not Making This Up).

What I want to know is how I, the most dedicated cat lover on the planet, didn't hop on this gravy train while the getting was good.

I mean, seriously, look at my cats!!! They are AH-DORABLE in their Easter bows....

They deserve 10 million bajillion likes on the Internet. They deserve to be cat stars. They deserve their day of glory.

But as I wait for that to happen, I guess I'll just be a consumer/contributor to the cat cash economy.

After all, these bows cost (completely reasonable amounts of) money, folks. And since I like to keep my cats stylin', I use my very own feline-dedicated tailor. No, really, I have a contact for whenever I want specialty-made kitty accouterments. Her name is Shelly, and she runs an absolutely fab-u-lous online shop, RockerchicBoutique, that provides me and my babies with all they need. Sometimes she throws in handmade catnip toys, too, which makes the kitties go bonkers!

Anyhoos... I think I covered it all: bad cat puns for my own amusement, cats are making more money than me, my cats aren't famous but should be, and I buy pretty cat things from nice people. Yup. Covered it all.

But that's not a real and proper ending to a blog post, so I give you... CAT MEMES ... as they play me off stage left...

And finally, my favorite, because it involves BOTH cats AND guilt trips...

*So, um, yeah. I lied. One last cat pun: I'm totally writing this post while wearing my pawjamas beclaws I have to get up meowy early tomorrow.

Fancy Chicken Liver Goo

{From Mr. Big Moose}

One of my favorite things about cooking is that you can take things that people normally wouldn't eat and elevate them to absolute deliciousness.

For example, one day I found myself in possession of an excess of chicken livers. What to do with these? Normally, I'd fry up a big platter of them and gorge until I passed out (What?  I'm Southern now. That's acceptable down here.)  But this time I decided to make something a bit more fun (and fancy): Chicken Liver Mousse.

Now, most spreads tend to be a bit on the thick side, but when you combine chicken livers with whipped cream, you end up with something that is light, earthy, and delicious.

Also, please excuse the quality of my photos.  Until my wife lets me buy a mega nice camera, I'm stuck taking pictures with what is essentially a potato.  Also, if you want to skip to the recipe, just click here.

Blurry but ever so tasty

My deity, do you see that deliciousness on a Ritz?  It's a fluffy, tasty, and makes you think of your grandma's house in the country.   So what wizardry does it take to make something like this?  No wizardry at all, brother human.  BEHOLD.

 First, you gotta chop up that onion. I like red onions for this recipe, as the flavor is stronger, giving the recipe a bit more of a rustic taste.  Chop this shit up up in a coarse way.  Do the same with one tart apple, and mix the two.

 See that?  That's a pound of livers.  Rinse them, clean them, cut out any of those dirty grey areas, and then rinse them again.

Heat some oil in a pan, and then toss in the red onion and apple mixture.  Cook this for a few minutes until the onions and apples go soft.  Once those have gone soft, throw in the livers and cook them till they just pink in the middle and firm.

 Take all of that deliciousness and put it in a food processor and let it cool.  At this point, the fancy recipes call for cognac.  But we're in the south, and we don't have any of that fancy French stuff.  What we do have is bourbon.  Throw some bourbon all over that!  You'll want this to head back down to about room temperature before you puree it.

And puree it you will.  This tastes amazing right at this point, but we're not done.

 Whip up that heavy cream until it has medium peaks.  That's fancy talk for having peaks that eventually fall over.

 Once that's whipped up, slowly fold the cream into the liver mixture.  What you have is a delicious, light spread.

I store mine in mini jars and put it in the fridge, it's good for a weekish but it rarely lasts for more than a few days.

Alrighty, here's the recipe in super concise form adapted from Alton Brown's recipe.

Ingredients
2 tablespoons butter
2 cups chopped onion
1 cup chopped tart apple
1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme leaves
1 pound chicken livers, cleaned
1/4 teaspoon ground white pepper
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup Bourbon
1 cup heavy cream

In a large pan, melt the butter and cook onions, apple and thyme over low heat until they soften.  Remove the lid and turn the heat up to medium.  Cook the livers and cook them until they're firm and pink inside.  Remove from heat and allow the mixture to come to room temperature.   Add the pepper, salt, and bourbon to the mixture and puree it in a food processor.  Chill the puree while whipping the heavy cream into medium peaks.  Fold the cream into the cooled mixture and serve cold. Preferably on crusty bread...or ritz crackers.

Ah, skeet, skeet, skeet, skeet... NOOOO!!!!!!!!

The Urban Dicitionary is a lascivious labyrinth of horrible, horrible, horrible things. Unfortunately for the world at large, my husband's mind seems to be synced perfectly with this odious opus of nasty words.

Now, to understand this following story, you must first understand that, despite my newly acquired status as a middle-aged married white woman (for the record, I've always been white, but I've only recently reached my 30s), I know a thing or two about hip hop.

No. Literally. It is only a thing. Or two. No more than that.

One of the two things I know is the part of the Lil' Jon's song where he croons, "Ah, skeet, skeet, skeet, skeet, gosh darn, gosh darn. Ah, skeet, skeet, skeet, skeet, mother fluffer."

Mind you, this is what I hear when I listen to the song. Other people claim to hear explicit words. If only the boy would enunciate (and use proper dental hygiene), we wouldn't have to be having the debate as to what, exactly, it is he's saying.

Now, in my mind, "skeet" sounds like "scoot", as in, "hustle away from here, enemy of mine; this is your only warning."

So, when my kitten, Khaleesi, pierced my big toe, I responded by waving my hands in a "get thee behind me, Satan," motion and hollered, "Skeet, skeet, skeet, skeet, mother fluffer!"

Chris looked at me with horror.

"Please," he entreated. "Never say that to our cat. Or to anybody, actually."

I inquired why. Telling a feline who just violated my toe to get on her merry way seemed like a perfectly normal reaction.

"Um," my husband said, looking properly ashamed of himself, "do you know what 'skeet' means?"

"I'm not an idiot," I declared. "It means 'scoot.' As in 'get gone!'"

Chris pulled up the Urban Dictionary and read me the definition of the word "skeet."

Now, my mother reads this thing, so I am not going to tell you what that entry said. It's too horrifying for words. If you want to look it up, as the talking Disney candlestick says, "Be my guest." But let's just suffice it to say that skeet means that when a man really loves a woman, he loves her to the end. With the end resulting in... skeet. 

And I was threatening to do that ON MY BABY GIRL KITTEN!

So, let's recap:
1) The Internet is a place frothing with perversion.
2) My husband contributes to this filth by KNOWING WHAT IT MEANS! (He claims he learned it as part of his liberal arts education in undergrad, but I know his GPA, and I doubt he learned a damn thing while there, so this excuse convinces me not one iota.)
3) I inadvertently threatened to ... do bad things ... all over my kitten. I feel like the worst kitty mommy ever.

Now, for the pictures:

This is Lil' Jon. Doesn't he just look like a deviant?

Now, this is my sweet baby kitty cuddling with her Poppa. Does she look like she deserves THAT to happen to her?

No Womb At the Inn

I could craft a clever introductory paragraph preparing you for the subject of today's blog (which is infertility, fyi), but how about we just summarize it with "No, my wahoo is NOT okay, thank you very much," and then dive right on in...

... just like my OBGYN did! (Bam! Didn't see me going there that early, did ya? Ha. Too bad for you.)

This whole drama llama started in a sterilized room with my doctor saying, "Okay, honey, this will only take just a minute. Wait... wait... I've almost found it. Yup. Got your dignity. You won't be needing THAT anymore." Then she yanked out  my pride and tossed it into a dirty bedpan.

Actually, she said, "Sweetie, you have a tumor."

"Okay..." I said, mind racing. "Is it cancerous? Is it big? Do I need to call my husband?"

"Well, you might want to call him about the next issue," she said.

The next?!?

Weepiness settled into her wide blue eyes. "I'm just so sorry to tell you this, but... no, no... don't sit up... it's best if you hear this laying down ... but I'm afraid I have to tell you that you're infertile."

WHAT. THE. FUDGE?

At this point, my brain was running at the rate of about 27 WTFs per second, with my first initial thought being: "I can't have kids? Who the hell cares? Let's get back to this whole TUMOR business!!"

But the doc would not let it go. Instead, she kept saying things like, "Are you sure you're okay?," and "It's normal to cry." So, I kept saying back things like, "I'm positive I'm okay. Except for that TUMOR you so casually mentioned," and "I'm only going to cry if you don't tell me more about that TUMOR!"

When they finally got around to actually telling me about my tumor, they told me A LOT. But they also had plenty to say about the other condition from which I suffer: advanced polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS). I'm sure there's an actual medical description of what all thyroid cancer (yes, CANCER, even though you wouldn't have thought so from the way everyone focused on my lack of ability to spew out BABIES!) and PCOS entails, but for time's sake, let me just give you a rundown of the more salient points of being both cancerous and infertile and now hyped up on many, many meds:

1)      I was going to experience severe depression. A LOT of it. 

2)      Piggy-backing on the depression would be extreme anxiety disorder, so I could expect constant paranoia and regular panic attacks. 

3)      I was going to grow a beard. Maybe not a Santa Claus beard, but a good, dark 5 o’clock shadow.

4)      I was going to balloon up like a bloated badger left on the highway.

5)      I was going to start shitting my pants.
6)   Oh, and my lady parts -- indeed, the very essence of my womanhood -- were completely on the fritz.

For those wondering what this looks like, I invite you to imagine a fuzzy-jowled, psychopathic, rancid, weepy, sexless version of post-gum-chewing Violet Beauregarde of Willy Wonka fame.  Yup. That’s me. Hi!

                

But a funny thing happened on the way to the zoo that became my life. Soon, the shock of the cancer (and pants-shitting) wore off, and I started to accept that part of me. I embraced it even, because it was a journey that I felt would enrich my life, cause me to grow, and at least give me one hell of a story to tell when I'm finally allowed to drink again and need a good tale to trade at the tavern.

Not for one second did I think the infertility thing would bother me. After all, my husband, Mr. Big Moose, and I already had that conversation and came to a conclusion that can best be summarized by this picture: 

We just weren't the parenting type, we'd told ourselves. I was worried that my whole shrieking harpy persona would result in an astronomical psychological bill for our child, while Mr. Big Moose feared his nerdiness would cruelly produce a jock child.

"I just know it," my husband said. "He's going to bully me! He'll come running into the room and be like, 'Ha ha, Dad. I threw your light saber on the roof. Go get it, you pussy."

But something wonky happens when God comes down to aisle 9 in LifeMart and says, "Sorry, but this version of your life is now out of stock." You get kinda pissy that one option -- even though it wasn't one you wanted -- just got ripped away. 

Know what I want now?

Duh.

I want what I can't have -- a baby.

In fact, for a short period of time, I wanted one so badly that Mr. Big Moose and I actually went to an introductory interview to become adoptive parents. God liked that idea so much that She made our tire explode on the trip to the agency, causing us to be more than an hour late for our appointment.

That day, I learned a valuable lesson: When something unexpected happens, yell "Plot twist!" and move on.

So now, here I am blogging, and because I blog, I obviously contain a great store of knowledge on the subject at hand. Which, of course, means that you probably came here to learn a lesson or two from me about how to deal with YOUR infertility or whatever other hardship you're encountering.

I get it. I'm brilliant. It'd just be silly if you didn't take advantage of my wisdom. So, folks, here it is. What you've been waiting for. My "What to Expect When You Aren't Expecting" list of how to get through that point in your life where everybody but you is welcoming their progeny into the world.


1: Get used to people not minding their own business

When the doctor told me I wouldn't be able to have children, I immediately ... well, we covered this already... at that point, I didn't really care. But that doesn't mean that other people didn't. In fact, a lot of people still mind. Too damn many people, in my opinion.

Let's start with the obvious offender: my mother-in-law. Now, this sweet woman only wants the best for her son, bless her grandmotherly heart. But if you're not prepared for it, the desire other people have for you to have children can catch you off guard.

For example, my mother-in-law promptly told me that I should switch to a Christian doctor who could clearly make all of my problems dissipate through the power of pills and prayer. Or, on another occasion, I woke up to THIS text:

Again, I emphasize that she means well, but she's part of an epidemic that haunts non-preggers chicks. We constantly hear the question, "When are you going to start a family?"

Personally, my answer of choice is, "I'm infertile." It makes everything just awkward enough that I have ensured that the person will never torture another non-mom with that inquest. But I understand if you don't want to be that blunt, because, you know, they're your ovaries, and you don't have to talk about them if you don't want to. In that case, go ahead with whatever feels most comfortable. Another favorite is, "We're trying! In fact, we've got to leave right now, because I'm ovulating!"

You think I'm kidding. But hand-to-God, the number one question I'm asked as a young-ish married woman is when I'm going to get pregnant. Now, let me tell you something: That question is just not appropriate, folks.

When you ask this you are literally asking people when they are going to copulate, and since when is THAT a socially acceptable inquiry? You might as well just ask, "So, when's the next time your husband is going to stick it to you in an unprotected manner?"

Also, you never know how that person's uterus is faring. At least one in 10 women can't reproduce, and plenty of men's nether-regions are flawed, as well. (Fun fact: the top reason for male infertility is overtly large testicles. Bigger is NOT always better, my friends.) So, every time that you ask about impending pregnancies, you are actually wading through an emotional mine field.

Finally, to my most important point: Some people do not have children, and that is perfectly swell. In fact, some people shouldn't have children (crack whores and Republicans come to mind; JK - sorta). Yet we live in a society where everyone is expected -- nay, practically obligated -- to procreate. To do otherwise is viewed as abnormal. To have other priorities -- careers, traveling, volunteering, extended family -- is seen as settling for less. For some of us, this is viewed as getting more. We'll have more time for our jobs, our community, our nieces and nephews, for ourselves, and for the freedom to do all of the other things we couldn't do if we had kids. Sure, it's different from the norm, but for some of us, this is the hand life dealt, and we're going to make the best of it. Which brings me to my next list item...


2: Make lemonade

Enough said. 

3. Get ready to lose all dignity

                                            

Really, this book right here is about how romantic your options are. If you do choose IVF treatments or anything of that sort, you get to look forward to charting cervical mucus thickness and having your doctor see your vag/sperm more than he/she sees your face.

Now, I'm not saying that it isn't worth it. For some people, the indignities, wait, and small fortune are completely embraced as worthwhile, and anybody who wants a child enough to have a turkey baster rammed up their wahoo is dedicated enough to make one hell of a parent. So, more power to you. Seriously. It's a really rad thing to work hard for something that you really, really, really want, and I wish you the best of luck. But, Mr. Big Moose and I couldn't see ourselves turning my uterus into a build-a-baby workshop. Which is why we encourage people to...

4. Choose the adoption option

In my opinion, adoption is totes the right thing to do.

Now, I'm coming from a place of bias. My parents adopted three of my four siblings, so I know what it's like to have family that doesn't contain any similar DNA. And guess what?  There's nothing less special about choosing to love somebody rather than being indebted to because of blood.

Let me be clear: I'm not saying that people who adopt are better parents/people than those who choose to birth their own miniatures. Parenting is a peachy prospect, regardless of how the child is obtained (except for kidnapping; obviously that is bad, bad, bad.)

But I am confident enough in the fabric of my family that when Mr. Big Moose and I did consider having children, we never thought of anything but adoption.  For starters, we have absolutely no attachment to the idea of mashing up our genes and creating tiny versions of ourselves. With our luck, our child would have hooves, horns, and a huge ol' honker** Also, to complement our complete self-righteous liberal hippie side, we liked the overarching benefits of adoption: not adding to overpopulation, helping mothers have a valid alternative to abortion, and giving of ourselves to a child who needs a home.

Mind you, this wasn't merely a generous act discussed by noble parenting heroes. I'm already fat enough without adding a wee beastie in my belly, IVF/fertility treatments cut into our traveling funds, as well as sounding just plain terrifying, and Mr. Big Moose can think of nothing more horrifying than dealing with an extra hormonal version of me. In short, pregnancy sounds scary, and neither of us are overtly brave people.

Of course, fear wasn't the main factor driving the people surrounding us when we went to the information session at a local adoption agency. Instead, these were folks who found no success with fertility treatments, who were too advanced in age to procreate, who were single and therefore unable to regenerate mini gene banks, and gay couples unable to produce on their own.

That being said, in the end, Mr. Big Moose and I decided that we're not ready at this to commit at that level. We don't have what it takes to move from "maybe one day" to "yes, we need this right now." But if we ever do take that giant step, we know that we're going to choose the adoption option.

5. Again, choose the adoption option

Um, so, confession: I'm a crazy cat lady. And I'm totally proud of it. It fills my maternal void.

Now, lest you think that I'm saying a hairy ball of shit and claws can replace your void for wanting children, let me back up. No. It can't. But it doesn't hurt to try. Besides, look at my rescue kitties. They're wearing bows. Tell me you're not a lot in love right now.

Now, I normally like to end my posts with cat pictures. It just seems like the decent thing to do. But not this time. Let me end by saying this: Whether you end up having babies or whether you end up doting on cats and your nieces/nephews, it's going to be worth it. Because that's how life goes. And as you wait for your journey to take you to your eventual path, just remember:

** I've been sensitive about the length of my nose ever since Duane Bebb told me that I should stop sniffing the Miracle Gro, followed by Andy Hawkinson writing in my yearbook, "Roses are red, Violets are Blue, You have the nose, Of a B-52." P.S. I did NOT change their names to protect their identities. 

Widow-Maker Chicken

Look closely through this window.

See that girl with her hand waving in the air? Just behind the painted image of a crown-wearing dude holding a plate of steaming chicken?

Yeah, well, imagine being told that the best place to eat in Nashville was this little shack. Now, envision that you walk in, and some diva is dancing like a stripper, hollering things like, "They came for some hot chicken, but they're getting a side of hawt ass!" 

Welp, y'all, that's Nashville's foodie scene for you, and I PROMISE you that it is nothing short of glorious.

 

The BigMoose (aka Chris) and I made a quick pit stop in the country capitol yesterday, as I was presenting at a psychology conference held in the great music city. Of course, I couldn't let the trip be solely academic, because that'd just be sad. 

Before we left, one of the BigMoose's co-workers ensured us that the ONLY place we needed to visit was a dive called Prince's Hot Chicken Shack. We Googled it, and sure enough, the reviews ranked the place as stellar and then some.

Now, I don't have adequate wordage to describe to you how shank-in-your-kidney this place looked. For realz, folks, it seemed shady as shit, nestled as it was in the you're-probably-going-to-die neighborhood.

But. Oh. Good. Lawdie.

LOOK AT THIS!

 AND THIS!

 AND THEN THIS!

It might not look like much, but what you're seeing is the best damn fried chicken on the entire freaking planet. Seriously. No hyperbole. This chicken up and blew my mind. 

But....

No. 

Really.

When they say Prince's Hot Chicken is hot, they mean that you will take one bite and then your lips will burst, your eyes will water, and your complexion will take on the color of a freaking fire truck, which you will need just to douse the inferno traveling through your intestines. 

At the counter, the owner (who was just about the most charming and sweet person I've had the pleasure of acquantifying) gave us a warning.

"Now, y'all know this chicken's spicy, right? Like, I wouldn't recommend you order anything hotter than the medium."

My momma didn't raise no fool. (Actually, scratch that. I have three siblings who could arguably be considered less than intelligent. So, let's just say that maternal genes won on one out of four, with that one being yours truly.) I ordered the mild. Big Moose tapped into his alpha male and ordered the medium.

After one bite, he started crying. 

No.

Again.

Really.

His eyes puffed up, and tears creeped out of the corners. But the fattie in him just couldn't stop. He kept gnawing his way through the pile of pyromania. At one point, he actually said, "I think I'm going to vomit. My body is in distress right now. Like, I want to keep eating it, but my face won't let me. I've never had anything hurt so good." But trooper that he is, he kept at it, my friends.

And this was the result: 

 

Okay, so the real result was BigMoose waking up at 1 a.m. and abusing our poor hotel bathroom.

Anywaaaaay...

TL;DR*: Prince's Hot Chicken is ah-MAY-zing. And hot. Like, set-your-mouth-on-fire-so-good hot. And strippers practice their dance routines in the restaurant sometimes. But then they get kicked out by the management. Oh, and you can order a BOWL OF PICKLES with your meal, and even though that sounds wonky, it's crazy delicious. Oh, and it's cheap as hell. Like, $5 for your meal. And there's sweet tea! 

TL;DR2: Sorry about the first TL;DR. It got long. Which is why I bet you didn't read it. 

*For those who don't speak Internet, this means "Too Long, Didn't Read."