mouthfeel

Deep-fried softshell crab salad — homecooked meal prepared by mama. Light ponzu sauce on the side and a bowl of seaweed soup. Extreme homesickness, dear god.

I already rhapsodized about the In-N-Out burger, but you should have a visual of the animal-style fries in the background. Sorry that I couldn’t get a pic of the innards; I was starving and impatient at this point.

How to Enjoy In-N-Out

Short way:

1. Eat a cheeseburger, or a Double-Double if you are so inclined (every guy I know and about 25% of girls I know). Only losers get In-N-Out burgers without cheese.

Long way:

1. Eat a cheeseburger (or Double-Double). Try animal style if you eat messy or protein style if you’re watching your carbs. Savor each bite. Memorize them.

2. Leave the California/Nevada/Arizona vicinity for an extended period of time.

3. At three months, consider yourself an In-N-Out ambassador as you proselytize in your new state or country. Proudly display the oval sticker on your Moleskine.

4. At four months, talk about In-N-Out incessantly. Wax nostalgic with other Californians and wave off non-Californians with all their talk about Krystal or White Castle or whatever. Note: Shake Shack and Corner Bistro fans may be allowed to have their say but must always be responded with, “That’s not really fast food, though.”

5. At five months, eat at your local McDonald’s, go back home. Cry and masturbate simultaneously. Repeatedly ask your friends, “But what if I forget it, and then later it wants to come back to me — AND I WON’T WANT IT ANYMORE?”

6. At six months, congratulate yourself for having moved on. You’ve tasted a lot of new things that your new state or country has to offer, and you feel very Zen about it all. Like, you figure if it’s supposed to happen, it’ll happen.

7. Book tickets home. For days before your flight, consider whether first meal should be any variation of the taco, or In-N-Out.

8. Finally return to California. Good tacos require a longer drive to the heart of Los Angeles. Bite tongue when Mom suggests Zankou; she’ll quickly realize it is too far, and she is hungry, too. Note: Real Californians know the two closest In-N-Out’s within driving distance of their house; most of us know pretty much every single In-N-Out near every freeway we drive. For instance, the three closest In-N-Outs to me in the Valley are: 1) off the 101 exit on Ventura/Cahuenga, 2) Burbank and Lankershim, and 3) off the 101 exit of Van Nuys on Ventura.

9. Have furious make-up drive-thru at the closest In-N-Out. Flirt with cashier and ask for peppercinis. Open-box your order instead of closed-bagging it so you can look at it and smell it on your way home.

10. Return home and make sweet, sweet mastication. Happy burgasms.

Pretty sure nothing beats mom’s home cooking. Look at the marbling on that (incredibly thin-sliced) meat! Say yes to American beef! (This exclamatory statement made sense in Korea six months ago.)

Conversation with 7-year-old nephew, thrice-removed:
— What grade are you in?
— I wish I could answer that question.
— … What?
— I’m finished with school.
— Oh, does that mean you’re a grown-up?
— … Yes… yeah… yes.

Behold — the Flamin’ Hot Cheeto. The scourge of public schools everywhere (spicy foods cause a high!), this extreme snack reigns supreme over other Frito-Lay titans. As a young sixth-grader with newfound access to a middle-school Student Store, I ate one bag of these heartattacks every day for a semester until I developed a double chin. The following summer, cut off from the sybaritic indulgences of scheduled lunches, I inadvertently lost the weight by replacing one piquant addiction with another — the relatively calorie-free bibimnaengmun.

When I was a kid, the best way to eat the Flamin’ Hots was to use only your thumb and forefinger on one specific hand so that the crimson crust of spiciness, layered over your chosen digits through repeated usage, could be licked off after the bag was done, leaving a telltale pinkish dye for about 24 hours. Nowadays, it’s no good to have twentysomething-old fingers stained in such childish ways. Use a wet napkin, and wipe after each bite. That’s what being an adult means. Unfortunately.

(mouthfeel returns with more entries for this Very Special U.S.A. Edition! Update your bookmarks!)

Um, another terrible picture, but a preview of my brother’s wine and cheese party tomorrow night. Hook’s twelve-year-old Wisconsin cheddar (the card is mistaken), so I was eleven when it was made! Crystallized salt forms over time within the otherwise smooth-textured cheese — nay, to call Hook’s twelve-year cheddar, “cheese,” would be to disparage its perfection. It’s like I never knew anything about ANYTHING, EVER, before.