We traveled to Toledo this weekend for a Pasz family reunion. When we visit, the activities may vary but one thing stays the same. The delicious, potato-based, cheese-topped, swimming-in-gravy meals that, after the meat sweats subside, leave this lady just a little bit happier.
When it's happening, it's so wrong it feels right. It's like I'm having a secret, same-sex affair with Paula Deen and the consequences just don't matter. I am risking it all. For the butter.
It doesn't stop with the entree. The dessert table redefines excess. From goopy lemon meringue to some sort of Ritz cracker glued to a piece of chocolate concoction (probably wasn't glued together, but I'd eat it even if it had glue in it), they spared no detail. Pumpkin pie? Two of them. Oh, you'd like Cool Whip? Whole tub of it just to your left.
The spread spoke to me seductively, whispering, "Come to our side. Cleanse your worries away. Take a gravy bath."
God bless you, the women of Pasz. Good Gravy, you can cook.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
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