When I was little, I went on a trip to Portugal to visit my grandparents, who were wintering in the Algarve. I got given a nickname over there, due to my general love of pasta: Senhorita Macaroni.
I've kept that taste for noodles into adulthood. And then I was taken to The Bite, during my stint on Martha's Vineyard for Viable Paradise. Kidnapped, really. And my tormentors force-fed me deep-fried macaroni & cheese.
I'm ashamed to admit it. I blame Stockholm Syndrome. I partook. And it was fine, oh so fine. More than fine. It's probably one of the more dangerous substances known to mankind. But it was OK, I told myself. How often will I be back to Martha's Vineyard? One taste. One taste won't hurt me.
Except now I find it not 20 km from me in Sidney, BC, from the pushers known as Fish on Fifth. No problem. There's a large body of water in the way. I only get to Sidney 3 or 4 times a year.
But I can't escape the deep-fried mac & cheese mob. Fish on Fifth now has an outlet on Pender Island: Fish on Pender. Does the "it followed me home" excuse exonerate me?
I'm also told the "best" deep-fried mac & cheese comes from the cheese factory on Waikiki. Maybe I should set myself up as the judge of what's "best".
I sense a future trip to Waikiki to sample and critique the warez. After all, Senhorita Macaroni knows her pasta.