My recent stay...deep in the heart (burn) of Texas

 I am a simple girl with simple tastes (The notable exception, of course, would be my highly-refined taste in men). So, imagine my delight as, when I was following a clearly-struggling-to-carry-my 80-pound-bag-through-the-door daughter into her Austin house, I was aromatically assaulted by the tantalizing smell of hot dog soup simmering on her stove. I was home. Transported to my childhood and Savannah's. 

I waited for Savannah to drag my luggage like a bloated body into my room, watching her collapse at the waist like her puppet strings had been cut, gasping for air like a landlocked guppy. I frowned as she then gingerly stood and stretched, her back making alarming cap-gun noises. "Have you taken a break from working out regularly?" I asked, watching her leverage one end of my bag up onto the bed before throwing her body weight up under the other side to raise it to mattress level. Success! "Can we eat now?" I inquired impatiently. Savannah nodded...so emotionally overwhelmed from having her mama visit that she was unable to formulate whole words. 

I sighed happily.

Savannah had made hot dog soup. Lisa had prepared pasta salad. 

There was string cheese in the fridge.

Fruit gummies in the pantry.

Miniature Peppermint Patties at-the-ready.

I was good for the duration of my time in Austin.

But, no...Mama needed to be taken out on the town. 

The stifling HOT town.

Again...simple girl. 

Golden Arches cheeseburger and fries girl.

But I was game...

First stop:  Aba Austin in the famed South Congress Avenue district. 

Worth it for the cooling stations alone. Silent misting fans provided a welcome respite from the torturous Texas sun. The busy restaurant welcomed us warmly and quickly accommodated my rapidly dramatic decline as I battled an external climate crisis and internal insecurities based on economic disparity discovered during our brief wait for a table...I didn't know that was such a thing as a shampoo scrub and that I needed it to detoxify my hair. Apparently a major selling point is that it expired twenty-four months after the first use but I was convinced, after discovering the very reasonable forty-five dollar price tag that, given time,  I could recreate the scrub using the black sea salt and basil in my own kitchen. The shampoo scrub really whetted my appetite so I was extra-eager to get to Aba Austin despite the fact that I wasn't sporting the $800-$3,000 cowboy boots everyone on South Congress Avenue was wearing while window-shopping. I would just have to hope no one noticed my orthopedic sandals. 

Oh! Thank goodness! Basil decorating my drink! I inconspicuously rubbed it in my hair before popping it in my mouth. My imagination was ignited by giant slices of raw radish chips and purple carrot swords that cut a current across a settled sea of hummus. Whipped feta? Yes, please! And more olives than you could shake a purple carrot stick at. 

For dessert, we ordered the Pistachio Panna Cotta. For a girl accustomed to the inevitable disappointment that is attached to the varying distribution levels of hot fudge atop her McDonald's sundae, it defies description. Lisa, trying to help, compared it to flan. I am not a flan fan. This is a cool, layered dessert...a confoundingly firm yet creamy base topped with citrus and nuts. A surprising array of tastes and textures that combine to lower your body temperature while heightening your senses.

Hours later, my digestive delight turned to despair as debilitating heart burn arrived, slipping beneath the bedsheets to join me for a sleepless night of crippling cramps.

Never again, I vowed in the morning, ashamed to meet my own gaze in the mirror. The only thing this girl would be chewing for the foreseeable future would be Tums tablets.

"What would you like for brunch, Mom?" Savannah asked an hour later as I faced yet another food-restricting failure, this time, roof-top, at Paperboy East. Only Texas would so-blatantly besmirch brisket in a breakfast hash. My limited Western New York exposure to brisket compels me to consume it in only its purest form. I went for the Ricotta toast...topped with basil (Yup, one swipe across my hair first), mint, curd, kiwi, berries and...crumble! "Toast" was not an accurate description for this bread-based breakfast bonanza. When I wasn't tunneling through my toast, I was sharing a UFO-shaped blueberry pancake made with brown butter and sea salt (tossed a few grains into the old mane) stealing some sauteed sweet onions from Savannah's hash.

The Texas blue laws curtailed my Sunday morning mimosa so I ordered a fun cocktail called a Spring Fling that I promptly renamed the Sour Patch Kids punch (after they scraped me off the ceiling). Fortunately, the glass came with a generously sugar-coated rim so I went into immediate survival mode and methodically pushed all the sugar up and into my drink. Perfect.

Until...hours later found me again with an uninvited guest to remain, steadfastly by my side, to wait out the long night. 

I know, in my heart, that these two amazing restaurants do not bear the entirety of the blame of my gastric distress. It is important to be accountable for one's choices and one's subsequent actions. Ultimately, everyone is responsible for their decisions and must bear the consequences. That is why the next blog will point to the other party who caused this traumatic pain:  Stay tuned for the role that Savannah and Lisa played in this stomach-turning saga.