Da Kine! Da Kine!

(*Middle Aged Author's Note:  If you didn't immediately get a visual of Tattoo pointing at the airplane on Fantasy Island bleating, "Boss!  Boss!  Da plane!  Da plane!" then you are way too young to be reading this blog.  Just an FYI.  And if you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, then Google can be your new best friend because I refuse to acknowledge that I'm so freaking old that there are cultural references that people who are considered to be adults aren't familiar with.  Kind of like the day I was having breakfast with my overly young friend Lindsay and made an Archie Bunker reference and she said, "I don't know who that is.  I mean, I've heard of him and I know he's an actor, but I've never seen any of his movies."  *Sorry for throwing you under the bus, there, Linds, but that was a sad, sad day for me.  Of course, Lindsay is also the girl who, while talking about the older man who she had been in a relationship with, said, "He's almost 50... shouldn't he, like, be DEAD soon?"  The fact that I have friends who say things like that makes me ridiculously happy.  I think Lindsay is all kinds of awesome, even though technically that means she thinks I should be dead soon, also.) 

Wait... what was I talking about, again?

Okay, anyway:  My friend, Jennifer, is in Hawaii visiting her family for a while.  (I know, right?  MY family lives in California's Central Valley.  Not exactly a prime resort area.  We've got your almond orchards, your canal banks, your sweltering heat in the summer... Yeah.  Can't wait to book a trip THERE!  I know exactly how Suri Cruise feels right now being held hostage in Pittsburgh while Tom does a movie.)

(From Suri's Burn Book, http://surisburnbook.tumblr.com/... That's what I look like while we're driving to Turlock, CA, to visit the fam.  Sigh.  Actually, that was also me the entire way across the country while we were moving to Northern New York.  And every time we go visit the in-laws in Hooterville.  I'm kind of a kill-joy.)

But anyway.. .Jennifer's family is in Hawaii.  (Yes, I'm just a little bitter, though if anyone ever deserved a tropical vacation and an amazing time with family, it's Jenny.  Love you, girlfriend!  MOOOO!)  

Meanwhile, she posted this photo on Facebook yesterday of an item on a local menu.  

There is just sooooo much to say about it:

First and foremost, the title.

There is no way.  In hell.  That I would be caught dead.  In a restaurant.  Ordering something. Called.  THE FATTY.  

NO.

Now let's discuss the double Spam patty.  

Is it two hamburger patties topped with Spam?  Or two Spam patties topped with bacon and 2 kine cheese?

Either way?

Again I say:

NO.

But it doesn't stop there:  Completing this horror is raw onion, sauteed mushrooms and onions, potato chips, brown gravy, and lettuce and tomato! (Why the exclamation point?  Are lettuce and tomato that awesome?  Why am I never that happy to hear that my entree is coming with lettuce and tomato?  Is there something I don't know?  Is that really the high point of this craptastic heart attack on a plate?)

Oh... AND DON'T FORGET THE KIM CHEE!!!!

AND THE FREAKING KITCHEN SINK!!!  Which I would rather eat than anything called "The Fatty!!"  

When someone says "I threw in everything but the kitchen sink" I always assume it means that they gathered food already in their house and made something with it.  

Here's the thing:  NONE OF THOSE INGREDIENTS ARE IN MY HOUSE.  (Except the 2 kine cheese.  I have cheddar and American, which technically isn't actually a cheese but I can't convince Dan of that.  I'll even show him where it says "processed cheese food" and he'll be all, "See?  Right there... it says cheese.")  

Who actually buys Spam??  

And wouldn't you think, in Hawaii, that there would be enough fresh fruit and wild pigs roaming around that they wouldn't need to resort to Spam, potato chips, and gravy?

At least in the central valley I would get something amazing from the Taco Truck and no one would dump Spam on a plate as an example of local cuisine...

Maybe I should rethink my position on complaining about the fact that my family made it to the west coast and never migrated further into the Pacific Ocean?

Dear Mom and Dad,

Thank you for settling in the produce belt of California, even though you weren't farmers and basically only hung around because you really like wine.  Thank you for never feeding me Spam, even though creamed chip beef on toast wasn't much better. And don't make me bring up the corn pancakes ever again, MOM.   Also?  I'm sorry for being bitter for the past 48 years that you didn't raise me in Hawaii.  Oh, and thank you for the pool, even though it wasn't exactly the same as an ocean.  

Love,

Dani