Had a wedding reception over the weekend — one of those where they got married already, then came home to have a party — love that idea, btw. But anyhoo, we had a blast — the bride got so drunk she spilled 3 drinks on herself (luckily AFTER she had changed out of her dress!), broke a glass and fell twice, after which she pretty much just sat in the floor laughing like a loon. And the groom was so shitfaced he couldn’t do anything about it, so for all I know they may have had to sleep there!
But the best part… was the food…
Heaping platters (yes, plural) of fried chicken, vegetable tray, chips and salsa, every kind of potato-salad-macaroni-salad-whatever-salad imaginable… and the piece de resistance: TWO ENORMOUS MEAT AND CHEESE TRAYS WITH WHOLE LOAVES OF BREAD SITTING NEXT TO THEM FOR MAKE-YOUR-OWN-SAMMICHES! Now that’s a motherfuckin’ party!
But there were also… little weenies.
And I LOOOOOOOOVE little weenies. Little weenies soaking in a bubbling Crock-pot full of barbecue sauce is second only to little meatballs in the Hoody Hoo Food Pyramid. Oh, and little quiches. And crabcakes.
But I digress.
The pancreas… does not approve of little weenies in BBQ sauce.
Even WITH the pig enzymes, I had to let Chuckweasel have most of them after my damn organs got uppity. Now, I’m figuring it’s the sauce, since I’ve had both regular hot dogs and little meatballs in a similar sauce PP (Post-Pancreapocolyse) with no trouble. So the difference between the weenie sauce and the meatball sauce is the bad part.
But still. I will miss you, little weenies in BBQ sauce. We had a good run.
And then, as we were packing up to leave, I saw this:
And I felt a little better.