I love the Super Bowl.
I don’t love it for the football because, although I have five sons, a husband, a father, and two brothers who love it madly, I never did get the hang of the rules. So it appears to be a bunch of bulked up men running around the field hitting each other.
I don’t love it for the commercials even if some of them are clever. I love it for the food.
You’re shocked, right?
I have a deep, abiding, unalterable affection for snack food. I was in my glory when my mom attended college, worked full time and was often too exhausted to cook dinner. She would apologize, look annoyed with herself, and put down a box of huge sourdough pretzels, a bowl of cheese sauce, and a big green salad. I was rapturous.
Anything crunchy, cheesy, gooey, bready, carb-loaded, or otherwise ‘questionable’ for your health is in my comfort food wheelhouse.
I try to keep it reigned in most of the time. There’s really only so much of that you can justifiably consume with or without a Polar Vortex. The result of my self-restraint is that whenever something pops up that could be construed as a cause for a party or a reason to break out the finger food, I fling myself into it wildy, turning cheesy, bready, crunchy, creamy, deep-fried, baked, buttery, and otherwise decadent munchy foods like my life depends on it.
The guys seem to be okay with it. It’s hard to judge, really, since they’re in a carb coma on the couch for quite some time and they don’t respond to questioning unless I wave a fresh-from-the-fryer corndog in front of a fan.
For “The Big Game” we have a rotation of classics much in the same way most folks do for Thanksgiving.