Is That A Butternut Squash in Your Pants, Or Are You Just Happy to Read Me?

I pledged a sorority my junior year of college. My nickname during pledgeship was a half-assed play on my last name (which was perfect because I turned out to be a half-assed pledge). They called me Falafel (my last name is LaFollett). How clever.
-But I liked it. I fucking owned it.

Like I own my food baby. Yep, nestled between my sumptuous titties and raging vagina, there is a food baby. A gut. My womb of consumption. My worst enemy some days, an old friend always. My badge of gluttony.

I know how to chow. I’m no Donna Simpson, but I’ve been cleaning plates since 1988. Sure it made for an awkward adolescence. I was a pudgy kid. With a bad haircut. All the right ingredients to be a middle school troll. But confidence is something you find, and personality is something you develop. Being a fat kid gave me a personality. And being a funny, intelligent woman makes me bad ass.

Not to mention food is so fucking hot right now. Celebrity chefs, cooking channels, food porn, eating contests, cook offs. Everyone loves food. And now is the time to eat.

I'm right there with the rest of the world. I'm fascinated by all aspects of food, from the first seed in the ground to my fibery leftovers in the loo.