Whattup Houston

This last weekend my friend Sara and I went to visit our BFF (OMG!) Bex in Houston, where she's lived since August when her German boyfriend was placed there with his German company. I'd never been to Texas. Well, I've never really been ANYwhere, so if I go to the library and it has different flowers than in my backyard I feel like I'm on vacation.

The bummer part about taking trips to far-away destinations is that... you have to get there on an airplane. Ack. Ack ack ack ack ack. I was so nervous on the flight there. Any time I tried to close my weary eyes my evil psyche would crook a finger around my cerebrum and twist into it images of horrific airplane crashes and the reality of the vast air space surrounding us and the distance from us to the hard ground below. **shudder** This mental anguish coupled with the cramping in my bladder caused by trying desperately not to pee every twenty minutes (Sara woke up to me straddling her in the middle seat with my crotch on her knee and my cowgirl boots frantically kicking her shins in an effort to make it to the aisle) made for a fully exhausting three-hour flight.

And then we were in Texas. Whattuuuup!!!


My Top 3 Impressions of Houston:


1.) It is not Texas-y enough. Where the hell are the 300-lb cowboys waddling around in rusty spurs, smackin' on BBQ ribs and tipping their hats at the 300-lb denim-clad ladies, y'all? I saw more jogger traffic than I was used to seeing in Santa Barbara and Encinitas combined. I didn't realize that when they said "everything's bigger in Texas" they were in fact referring to people's calf muscles and stamina.


2.) It is HUGE. Driving through Houston is like driving through LA on repeat times five hundred. Apparently we only saw a tiny fraction of its enormity, but it was enough to humble me, turn me mute for at least an entire minute, and make me pray into my clammy Californian hands. If you ever dropped me off somewhere by myself in Houston, I am positive you would never hear from me again. I would be swallowed whole by the rows of grandiose buildings and the twelve-lane freeways and the towering billboards shooting up into God's armpits.

3.) I want to eat it. All of it. I was imagining that my veganism would be put to its hardest test in Houston. I was prepared for racks of ribs and smoky bacon and dollops of creamy mashed potatoes to smother every menu option, and I was banking on baked potatoes and grilled corn on the cob to be my saving graces. I couldn't have been more wrong. Granted, Bex is the healthiest person I know, and she took us to her tried-and-true favorite eateries, so I shouldn't have been QUITE so surprised to find myself in Ruggles Green-- an organic, local, vegan-friendly cafe with honest and brilliant nourishment for the body and mind. I was so happy about my "Vegetarian Special" of quinoa, purple kale, and veggies with a pomegranate reduction that I started motor-boating my plate's contents the second it was set in front of me. B-bw-b-bw-b-bw-b-bw-b-bw-b-bw-b-bw!!! (Um. Those are motor-boating mouth sounds.... If you were wondering.)

I would say there are two things that most impressed me about my trip to Texas: the houses, and the hot sauce. Bex took us down avenues crowned with giant oaks to see the breath-taking plantation homes on either side. Oh my God. These houses were all competing for blue ribbons in the contest of Best House to Showcase in This Year's Snow Globe. The pristine porches, immaculate lawns, and bleached-white pillars made me sigh with nostalgia for a life that I'd never known. I know I would never be able to keep a house clean like that for more than five minutes, but it made me ache a little for the simplistic and proud charm of it all. It was as if the houses themselves molded the people who would be deemed worthy enough to inhabit them. Maybe if I'd grown up swinging in the sun-dappled shade of that towering oak amongst the perfectly molded shrubbery and pruned roses... maybe I too would never wear sweatpants in public and would sneeze into handkerchiefs and would take pride in my appearance. hahahahahahahahahahah. That was a good laugh. But, boy, did  I enjoy those houses.

As for the hot sauce....

It all started when Bex took us to her favorite market in her Houston neck of the woods. I can't remember what it was called, but it was essentially Whole Foods on Crack. There were at least nineteen varieties of potatoes and an eating area with live music and multiple levels that made me confused and think I was in Ikea. We posted up in the wine and beer aisles to make our Texas selections and then high-fived each other when we saw all the tables set up with free samples honoring the advertisements all around for Hot Pepper Week or something in Houston. Sweeeet!!! I psshawed at Bex's watery eyes and cringing face after she tried the spicy peanut butter at the first station. We moved over to a hot sauce sample served on tortilla chips and I shoved one in or around my mouth, smirking and wrinkling my brow in condescension when Bex asked me if it was hot. Bolstered by my recent ability to drench anything and everything in Sriracha sauce without even batting an eye, I zipped excitedly over to the next hot sauce sample area and nodded distractedly when Bex said she'd be right back and left to get a cart. Sara and I helped ourselves to the basket of breadsticks and started dunking them in the row of little dishes set out side-by-side. There were about eleven different sauces, all in different colors and flavors, and we commented knowingly between mouthfuls: "Yum. This one. Ew. No. Oh barf. Oooh this one's good..."etc., etc. And then suddenly everything was not okay. I had about three sauces to go when it hit me. An army of ants invaded my tongue and took it upon themselves to sting each and every taste bud across its blistery surface. A cold flaming sweat started dripping from my eyebrows into my bloodshot eyes and beading up in a glittery mustache above my top lip. My tear ducts were flooded with peppery hatred and started streaming nuclear heat onto my burning cheeks. I tried to look through the red watery veil of my eyelids to see Sara, and judging by her hurried waving hands and jerky pacing back and forth, I decided she was in exactly the same shape as I was. Bex came back to find us poppy-faced, sobbing, and line-dancing back-and-forth between the aisle as we blindly stuffed bread sticks into our searing mouths to try  to absorb even one of the million hotspots of pain on our tongues. Bex didn't look too happy with us. Suddenly I saw Sara lurch out to the left and gasp hoarsely, "Ice-heh-heh-cream-heh-heh!" I spotted the free sample station next to us. There was a tiny African-Texas lady handing out meager spoonfuls of Strawberry Kiwi ice cream. Sara popped one in her mouth and melted in relief. I stared at the conundrum before me with my hot teary eyes. I don't eat ice cream. I haven't willingly eaten a dairy product in four months, nor have I had even a slight desire to do so. Then a satanic pepper seed thrust his blazing trident directly into the middle of my tongue, splitting my senses in two. I heard Bex saying that I could read the ingredients on the side of the tub, and that hey maybe there wasn't any dairy in there at all! as I lunged toward the woman in a perfect imitation of an aggressive lioness's attack on a gazelle. Mid-leap I heard the woman speak with fear in her eyes:

"Sheeeee's cryyyyyiiiing...." It was all in slow-motion. Her voice drawled in bass tones and my hand reached out... farther... farther... and grasped the white plastic spoon and the nickel-sized scoop of dairy upon it. And then it was in my mouth. And I could breathe again. And I opened my eyes. And I rejoiced in the Lord and hallelujah.

Sara grabbed my elbow. Her eyes widened in terror and she rasped, clutching at her throat, "It... comes... back...!"

We spent the next fifteen minutes drunk off of pepper seeds. Sara was pounding shots of cream at every coffee stand she stumbled into. I was shoving fistfuls of free bread samples into my parched mouth, hoping to snuff out the fire with whole grains and flour. I didn't even chew; I marched around lock-limbed like Frankenstein's monster with bread crusts hanging limply off my lips and my mouth gaping open to air out the dry heat. Eventually we stopped weeping, our sweat dried, and we were able to mostly function like human beings again.

In the battle of veganism vs. extreme situations that challenge veganism... well, I guess veganism lost this round.

Dear Texas: I will never underestimate you again. Love, (singlewhitefemale).

P.S. You know what Texas? I take that back. While I may have gotten my ass handed to me by your hot sauce, on the other hand I totally dominated you on the club dance floor. You couldn't handle my African-inspired head swoops and hip jiggles. In fact, you cowered away from me like a little bitch when I used the public handrail to give me the leverage to Zumba-stomp and whip my hair around into your horrified face. Yeah, that's right. Whattup NOW Houston.