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Hi. I'm Jaime

Find joy in the little things. Travel when possible. Pet all the dogs. Use hyperbole and curse words prodigiously. Write it down. Always ask about hot sauce.

Your Body Isn't A Temple; It's An Amusement Park

Your Body Isn't A Temple; It's An Amusement Park

I’m getting married in a little over six months and like every woman raised in a maladaptive society which equates beauty/youth/weight or lack thereof with worth - I’m trying to eat a little healthier in the hopes of looking like the Target knockoff Priyanka Chopra at my wedding.

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Nothing super intense like keto or Whole 30 - just more veggies, fruit and water and less arguing with people over what constitutes as a serving size when it comes to Chevre.

(The only correct answer here is, “The entire thing. The fuck’s wrong with you that don’t wanna shove a glob of goat cheese into your maw like you’re a feral raccoon?”)

I even made a Facebook post about how I bought my wedding dress today and that I want to eat better food.

Literally two hours after making that post, I get a text message from Paps.

Usually, texts from Paps are short and informative:

  • “Going to the Indian Store. Do you want anything?”

  • “What time does your flight land?”

  • “Home Depot is having a sale on patio furniture.”

  • “Mom made Hakka Noodles. They were good.”

This time, I see an iCloud link to seven pictures he’s taken.

It’s 2:00pm on a Friday afternoon. What could he possibly have taken seven pictures of that are so noteworthy, he needs to text them to me.

I click the first one.

It’s a picture of El Latino brand Queso Para Freir.

OK. Paps has just learned about halloumi and is fascinated with the concept of fried cheese.

Which, fair play because I’m also fascinated with the concept of fried cheese.

After all, I am my father’s daughter.

(Sidebar: He had the opportunity to get halloumi fries from Oli Baba’s in Camden last time he has in England and he didn’t go, opting to hang out in Southall instead which is the worst decision anyone has made since the Trojans were like, “What’s this? A free horse? Cool! Bring him in!”)

I swipe to the next picture:

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Oh, this isn’t good.

I’m swiping quickly now - like an overzealous Tinder user.

(I just referenced Tinder in a story about my dad. Gross)

Paps is making Taki-Breaded Fried Cheese Stuffed Jalapeno Poppers.

Guys.

My childhood home is Flavor Town and my dad is Indian Guy Fieri.

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Which leads to the following text message conversation:

Me: What in Christ’s name have you done?
Paps: The coating of Takis and tortilla chips is just amazing.
Me: My arteries turned to cement just looking at this.
Paps: You can also use Doritos.
Me: No! You can’t! Because that’s medically and probably morally obscene.

Totally ignores my totally valid concerns but hey Taco Bell - y’all hiring in R&D? ‘Cause I know a guy.

My takeaway from this story is three-fold:

  1. The universe hates me. I put it out there that I want to eat healthy and hours later, I get text messages about fried cheese.

  2. Paps is either a culinary genius onto something brilliant or he’s committing a hate crime against humanity with the invention of this culinary abomination.

  3. I get my love of junk/street food honest. I’ve often held the position that if you deep fried a couch, I’d probably take a whack at it. After all - as Tony Bourdain said, “Your body isn’t a temple; it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.”

Fried cheese? Yes please.

Tiny tacos replete with those amazing squeezy bottles of red and green salsa? All of it. Just all of it. Now.

Pani puri shots with vodka? I can think of no finer way to consume a trash alcohol.

But there is no fucking way I’m eating Taki-Breaded Fried Cheese Stuffed Jalapeno Poppers.

My body is an amusement park, not the Iowa State Fair and I’d really like to live to see my wedding day.

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