The kabob may have skewed my opinion of the Taste of Hillcrest

"The Taste of Hillcrest is scheduled for the day Mom flies in," Savannah announced, "I'll get tickets." My husband was doubtful. "Your mom will be leaving the house no later than 4:30 am to fly over 3,000 miles to San Diego and then you plan on making her walk countless city blocks immediately upon her arrival?"  I, however, had much more confidence in my abilities especially when I learned that I would be eating every 75 feet or so AND would be receiving my very own complimentary shot glass. "Sign me up," I told Savannah and immediately began training.

First I practiced walking down the school corridors while simultaneously snarfing down a cupcake. Turns out I'm a natural at that. Then I strapped on a pedometer and was delighted to discover that, over the course of a day, I had walked almost 6,000 steps. Wow! "That's great, Mom," Savannah said over the phone as she began researching the possibility of getting a refund for her Taste of Hillcrest tickets, "but were you aware that the minimal number of steps recommended for a nominally healthy human being is 10,000?"  I gasped. "In one day?" I asked, horrified, "That's preposterous!"  But there was a lot on the line here so I had to up my game. "I thought you said we had to walk the bus loop alone to foster our independence in order to give us the necessary skills to survive middle school," my 4th graders complained as I resolutely marched them to their waiting chariots in a sudden burst of loving compassion. "I just can't bear to see you go," I said, glancing at my pedometer as I shoved them up the steps of their assigned buses.

When I finally hit 10,000 (after strapping my pedometer to a particularly lively 4th grader), I knew I was ready to tackle The Taste of Hillcrest.  "But all you like to eat is cheese and Snickers bars," Brad told me as we headed out to the airport. "And you hate walking. When did you think this was going to be a good idea?" He was harshing my buzz. Or maybe I was just sleepy-tired. Either way, his voice was coming from VERY far away and was not yet piercing my consciousness.

Thanks to time travel, I arrived in San Diego at 11 am and was swept into the loving arms of my daughters. "Are you hungry?" they asked. "Starved," I admitted, "I rationed myself to eight Twizzlers on the trip (Aunt Annie's Pretzel Hut had been, regrettably, closed)." So, with Savannah manning the tasting map, we began our epic edible adventure. We started, oddly enough, at a sneaker store where Italian beer was poured into my shot glass. "I didn't know Italy was known for beer," I remarked, watching the salesman show us how the zippers unzip from around the heel. Sydney drank my, Savannah's and her own sample. "Why would you waste beer calories on that cute little figure of your's?" I asked, seeing as none of the Mosiman woman particular cared for the concoction. "Are you going to become like your friend Traci who spits out bites of brownies?" Savannah asked as Sydney, insulted for some reason, stomped away
down the sidewalk. I gasped. "How DARE you!" Insulted, I stomped down the sidewalk.

Things began looking up when I was handed a mango tortilla. "Taco," both my girls corrected me in unison. Then I was given a chocolate-covered apple slice. As I proceeded down the block, pulled pork with crisp cole slaw, chimis, and teriyaki chicken rewarded my dedicated self-rationing of Twizzlers.  But then things began to take a turn for the worst.

It started at the candy store when I was confused over why my daughters received lovely ocean-themed gummies while I received a phallic-shaped confection. After a lengthy perusal of the candy-coated penis, we finally realized that it was supposed to be a lobster. But, alas, the tide had turned. I was handed a chicken kabob and knew immediately that it would be too spicy for my delicate constitution. Savannah consumed it, handing the stick back to me so I could enjoy the pickle blossom that had lovingly cupped the peppered poultry. In the process, I pieced my uvula, gasping, chocking, spluttering on the sidewalk. When I regained the ability to speak, I assured the gathered crowd that I just wasn't meant to be a sword-swallower. Apparently it was the wrong crowd for that innocent statement.

We popped into an Ace Hardware (for more beer). "They have the best caramels here," I told my girls. Confused as to why she was buying food NOT included on our pre-paid food tour, Savannah nonetheless agreed that it was a delicious caramel. She was even more thrilled for the line of Thai food that followed. I couldn't understand why I was drinking Thousand Island dressing with ice cubes. While my eldest daughter began to scavenge like a squirrel on the San Diego sidewalk, hoarding my and Sydney's portions into storage containers, I took advantage of the photo opportunity with the magnificently-outfitted food service workers. Meanwhile, Sydney, who'd energetically gulped down our three samples of cold brew, wandered into a trendy clothing shop, re-emerging minutes later with an IPA and free earrings. I had indeed traveled to another place and time.

It wasn't until the tour was almost over that I discovered that each participating business was marked by orange balloons which, had I known, would have inspired me to walk briskly rather than blindly to each destination. Those balloons were like little binge-eating beacons. I also didn't realize, until the end, that there was a FREE shuttle. I almost felt betrayed but Savannah cleverly concluded our tour with some ice-cream like concoction that Sydney promptly spilled into her own cleavage. What's that old saying? Into every life, a little rain must fall? Well, with Sydney, it's with every décolleté, a little dairy must dribble. As for me, I will begin training for the Taste of Hillcrest much earlier next year. I should google how to toughen up my uvula to avoid future kabob-related injuries. I'll get back to you with my findings.*

*Helpful hint: NEVER, EVER google uvula exercises. Trust me.