There is no food whose name so belies its evil constitution as hushpuppies.
You have hush, as in “quiet”, as in “calm”, as in “mama singing you to sleep”. And then you have puppies, and who doesn’t love puppies?! OMG puppiiiiiiiiiiieees!
Speaking of which, I got to hold this chihuahua-pug puppy on Friday! He was 8 weeks old and so scrambly and smoochy. He wouldn’t stop smooching me on the face! I hated it. Hahahahahahaha.
Seriously, look at how cute he was! He was the size of that pint! And he got passed around the table, and he scrambled and smooched everyone so hard, until he fell asleep in a little ball in my friend’s arms—waaaaaaaaaaaaaah I want him.
OK, I got derailed.
Yes, hushpuppies. What an innocuous name for something that hurts my very soul. But also/mainly my stomach because they’re full of gluten and sweet, sweet crack cocaine so I can’t stop eating them.
Last night I walked out of Squid’s, unzipped my pants, and drove home with my angry gut spilling out over my lap.
And at The Q Shack, where they have that honey butter Country Crock business that you dip ’em in—nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.
Let me paraphrase Louis C.K. here and say, I’m not done with hushpuppies when I’m full. I’m done with hushpuppies when I hate myself.
They’re probably one of those foods that I should just make off-limits.
But who am I kidding? I could never live like that because what’s life without the delicious fried goodness of bloatdragons every now and again?