So I just returned from EATING MY WAY THROUGH NEW ORLEANS. Seriously. If it wasn’t tied down, I stuck it in my gob.

I was in NOLA with my wonderful friend, Christopher Hennessy, poet and all around lovely guy. You can find him on the internet, here.  He was attending the Saints & Sinners Literary Festival, and I drove down from the Porte du Shreve to hang out and, well, stuff everything that wasn’t tied down into my gob.

It all started with bacon. Lots of bacon. For those of you who know me in the real world, you know I am a bacon junkie. I have, as they say in the biz, “issues” with bacon. “Issues” meaning if I see it I cram it into my piehole. So imagine what ensued when I picked up the silver lid of the buffet doohickey at the hotel, and there was a motherload of bacon glistening at me in its unique, fat-dewed splendor. I may have taken a few pieces:

And by a few I mean a baker’s dozen. 

It started with the bacon, and moved on to snails (I love me some snails), and oysters, and crawfish, and probably a metric ton of read beans and rice, and some pork chops, and some andouille, and some gumbo, and some skillet corn bread, and some duck quesadillas, all washed down with Abita Amber or Purple Haze, depending on the spirit of the moment.

On a lighter note, I also did some damage on the ole snow ball, for which I also have a tremendous affection. Chris went for the wedding cake snowball, which I thought was a bold choice. I went for the slightly less creative, but definitely tummy-soothing, lemon-lime. Here they are in all their glory:

Beautiful. And thirst quenching!

Finally, I gotta give a shout out to the beignets. Ohhhhhh glorious beignet. I had two bags of them yesterday. One at breakfast, and one for dessert. I think I sweat powdered sugar at dance class today. I didn’t know whether to retch or lick my armpit and recollect that glorious pastry. Here they are, flirting with me before I devour them, care of Cafe du Monde:

If Proust had his madeleines, I have my beignets. Here’s the money shot!

Look at those babies! I’m getting a little hot just looking at ’em. Actually, I’m getting a little nauseous. Because after three solid days of eating, even I have to call it a day.

Or, more accurately, even I have to call for this little beauty:

Work your sweet magic, poopie yogurt. Work. Your. Magic.

Thanks.