Kentucky Fried Luvin'

There are only a few guilty pleasures in my life, but when I have the opportunity to indulge, I dig in…literally.

Tonight, we were discussing dinner options, all aware that none of us wanted to put forth the effort to cook anything. Mexican, which verges on a guilty pleasure for me, was a popular suggestion, but we all decided that since we eat Mexican three times a week and one was not very interested, it was probably time for a break. Bar food was another option, but that always ends up turning into a long night of people watching and jabbering at a local watering hole and someone saying "come on, just one more." Then, Joe turned around and rubbed his stomach and said, "How about KFC?!?"

Perfect.

But, then before I moved from the couch to fetch my keys, I started that internal argument. You know, the one that says, "cholesterol, fat, pounds, extra miles of running." Ha, well, the running part would be true if I were still putting in serious miles. I started to think how bad KFC is for you…all that fatty, greasy, extra-crispy goodness. Throw in some mashed potatoes and gravy, cole slaw, and macaroni and cheese (because one can never have too many starches and carbs) and you have a sinfully delicious dinner. Do I even need to mention the biscuits? Fluffy, flakey, buttery, golden brown.

I've talked myself into it.

So, after a quick run down the street (in the car of course, no exercise needed) a 12 piece bucket of extra crispy and original, sides of mashed potatoes and gravy, coleslaw, and macaroni and cheese and a bottle of Merlot, appeared on the dining room table. And the biscuits. Oh, the biscuits.

I was disappointed to see that KFC has done away with the spork. The spork is one of the best inventions ever created—half fork, half spoon. It was perfect for attacking the chicken and then scooping up gravy for the biscuit. What an ingenious creation. Instead, they gave us forks. Of course, they weren't really necessary, except for the occasional taste of cole slaw. Everything else can be scooped up with a biscuit or dipped into the gravy.

The chicken was dumped on the table, the sides were opened, and the carnage began. With greasy fingers and mouths, bones scattered on the table, and nothing but the sounds of glorious foodgasms, dinner was served. The fight began for the best piece of extra crispy. I won the first bout for the best piece, but decided to be relatively nice and shared a little piece of my next extra-crispy skin and buttermilk breaded goodness. Something I will later regret.

Scoops of coleslaw, mac and cheese, and potatoes filled our plates. Chicken bones were picked clean. Seconds, thirds, and yes, gasp, even fourths were consumed. And I wonder why my pants are starting to fit a little snug. The best part of the night was being able to scoop up the paper plates and throw them into the trash, putting the lids back on the containers and put them into the fridge, only to sit until we decide we are sufficiently tired of seeing the Colonel glaring relentlessly back at us as if to say, "Go ahead, I dare you. Eat me again!" Kind of naughty, isn't it?

So here we all sit, in our respective lounging positions...fat, happy, and miserable. There is still a trace of grease on my fingers, no matter how many times I wash my hands. I can almost hear my arteries clogging and cracking and crying out for help. But, for a minute, my body is happy. Content in knowing that I have yet again satisfied a need for something so sinful yet so delicious.

Now, where did I put those Tums, again? I am sure to need them later.

Be well, friends. And take time to enjoy some of life's guilty pleasures.