Fuck All That Fancy Shit

Like I said before, I went to visit my little sister this past weekend.  Before I went up there she kept bracing me for this small, mountain town that I was sure to find terribly boring.  I could go to the bar in sweatpants, I would meet *townies* wearing flannel, I could see the whole town in 2 minutes…  She was nervous that me, the big city, snobby food girl couldn’t survive in the middle of crazed college kids and gun-totting Repubs.

I assured her that beyond my love for salt-crusted whole red snapper, eggplant and mizuna salad and mini frittatas, that I was really a fried-food-eating scum-bag at heart.  And, um, yes – sign me up for more opportunities to wear sweatpants in public.  I, of course, had a kickass weekend.  I learned what a beer ball was, played more drinking games than I have in YEARS and watched a public access hunting show while eating one of the best mozzarella and spinach Strombolis of my life.  (And the seasoned waffle fries were pretty great too.)  Fuck all that fancy shit.