Fried Twinkies

Preface: I hate Twinkies. They're gross.

Last night Bob, Deji and I felt unsatisfied half-way through a Celtics game at the Fleet Center. We surprised ourselves when we up and left. I think we surprised our other friends who were there with us, too.

Trudged through Boston's still snow covered streets toward Deji's automobile named, I think, Kenda. There was too much noise and even though he repeated her name three times, I never quite heard. But pretended to, because it seemed rude to make him tell me again.

On our way, we passed Anthem on Portland Street - Deji happily exclaimed, "Fried Twinkies! This is the fried twinkie place. Remember? Miranda and I told you about the Fried Twinkies!!"

Given the absurdity in my belly from an evening that Had Not Gone As Planned already, I said, "Let's get some," feeling that Fried Twinkies were destiny or salvation. Bob wanted home and Deji looked back and forth wondering what we would do. We compromised, and Deji, Bob and I walked in, dressed for a basketball game, not a downtown restaurant. Stopped at the hostess station and inquired, "Can we order a fried twinkie to go?"

"Of course. Just order at the bar." And that I did, gleefully repeating, "Fried Twinkie to go, please!" I clearly enunciated the exclamation point. A few minutes later, I took my fried twinkie to go and we went.

We made it home in time for Everwood and I popped open my styrofoam Fried Twinkie holding to-go box. Two Fried Twinkies! Both covered in fresh cream and ripe berries. Swooped my spoon down and bit in. Bit into sweet warm solid gooey sweetness so divine I swooned and devoured my Fried Twinkies quickly.

Fried Twinkies rock.