I grew up in a Chef Boyardee free house. No TV dinners. No Hamburger Helper and no sugary cereals. When my sister and I accompanied our mom to the grocery store, we'd hungrily browse the frozen food aisle like a broke Elizabeth Taylor at Tiffany's.
So when Cathy's boyfriend, Sean, suggested we make grilled Chef Boyardee Ravioli sandwiches, I almost started breakdancing in Winco's canned food aisle. Instead I giddily grabbed a tin of raviolis ($.88!) and impulse bought a can of Beefaroni (my first ever!).
These wife-beater worthy sandwiches would be concocted at an event titled "Beer + Cheese + Whores = Your Perfect Friday Night." It was a Chico friend reunion (the whores, of course, being Cathy, Lisa and me); the perfect excuse to sip a 40 ouncer of Mickey's and bust out the SnackMaster.
* Beefaroni on white. Slice of American cheese. Slices of Tilamook Cheddar.
* Peanut butter on white. Slices of banana. Drizzle of honey.Chunks of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
Clamp that shit shut (Sean's a professional. Note the "I'm concentrating really hard on this important task" tongue maneuver. )
That can't be good for the arteries.
This is actually the ravioli sandwich.
Aka "the HeartAttackwich" AKA "Little Slice of Heaven."
It was a white trash dream come true! One hand gripped the Mickey's 40oz. The other held my scorching hot dream sandwich. I nibbled a few bites of the Beefaroniwich. I nibbled a half a ravioliwich. I definitely had a few bites of a gorgonzola/monterey jack/wasabi mayonaise on sourdoughwich. And I sipped that sweet malt liquor. I danced on the counter. I ate a few cold raviolis out of the can. And then...
Readers, I totally barfed. Like, four times.
The moral of the story? Listen to your mutha. When it comes to a Boyardee ban -- she definitely knows best.