Plated Evil

The devil plies me with some minty libation as she comes to collect my girlish figure.
I love food that's bad for me. This isn't news-- most people enjoy a rich dish from time to time. Usually I can sit down and wait for the temptation to pass. However, lately I've been watching the Food Network. My Mom and I can agree to watch Food Network (she doesn't really enjoy Top Model) and since I've been home the past few weekends, we've watched Paula's Home Cooking.
Now if you're not into the Food Network, let me fill you in on Paula's schtick. She's a born and bred Southerner, with the heavy accent played to the hilt for effect. She throws in "y'all" and says "boil" "boy-ill." Not only does she speak southern, she cooks southern. And by that I mean she fries everything. Every dish is made with some amount of butter. Usually, some heavy cream and eggs are involved. Cooking Thin, she is not. Her husband, Michael, and her two sons turn up in some episodes which is always hilarious. The men try and sneak a taste of the food before it's finished, which results in mild fisticuffs and cursing, which never happens on the Food Network. "That guy sure eats pretty good," my Mom says of Michael.
On Mother's Day my Mom and I had a hard time getting motivated to go out so we watched Paula's Home Cooking. It was a brunch show, and Paula made French Toast Casserole. Despite the fact that my Mom and I had just eaten breakfast, we were drooling. This weekend was my mother's birthday so I tried my hand at cooking a Paula Deen creation.
I got home late Friday night/early Saturday morning and prepared the dish for breakfast. My night owl brother came downstairs and watched me get the casserole ready to sit overnight.
"How many eggs does that take?" He asked, sipping his midnight glass of chocolate milk.
"Eight," I replied, cracking the eggs into the bowl. I got out the measuring cup and poured two cups of half and half into it.
"Holy shit!" Sam said as I dumped the cream in with the eggs.
"That's Paula Deen," I said, affecting a southern accent. "'Two sticks of butter, three cups of cream, add some sugar, fry it and use vegetables for color.'"
I measured out the milk. "There's less milk than cream in that stuff? God." Sam was disgusted.
"Tomorrow we add brown sugar, nuts and butter to the top before we bake it." Sam laughed as I covered the casserole with foil ("foy-ill") and went to bed. He had to work early in the morning so he missed out on the grand unveiling of the devil's work.
Some people say that we don't need fat and salt to make things taste good, that spices add flavor in a healthy way. Maybe my Mom didn't raise me right, but that's bullshit. I removed the casserole from the oven, the butter still bubbling around the bread, a sheen of brown sugar glazing the crust, holding the pecans to the surface. My Mom and I ate three or four slices with some bacon and enjoyed. The eggs! The cream! The buttery nuts! Maple syrup! It was perfect in every way. I may die today from a heart attack after one serving of that dish, but it's worth it.
I'm hoping to take a road trip to Georgia next month sometime to visit Paula's restaurant Lady and Sons. In my mind, Paula's there in a kitchen like the one in her home, working away at the stove to make a special meal for me. One of her cute sons will come in and sneak a taste before she's done. Paula will try to whack him, miss, hit me in the eye with some fresh-from-the-frying-pan green tomato, blind me in one eye and offer me her son's hand in marriage to avoid a lawsuit. I'd accept. I know in reality it'll be some no-name, no-fun cook with the same recipes you can print from the Food Network's website. But the ghost of Paula's cackles will echo through the restaurant, enjoying making me fat and bloated with her delicious fatty foods.