Chicago, a Dynamite City? Yes. Explosive.

One of my first gastric adventures was to a well known breakfast place on Michigan avenue called Yolk. Now, while I am certain that many Chicago natives, tourists, and students have experienced this majestic holy land of morning glory, I have to insist that myself and three of my girls had one of the more religious experiences of these frequent Yolk passers-by. 
The morning went like this: 
We rose from our beds reluctantly (as all college students do, and adolescents for that matter) to greet the morning and the afternoon as one. It had been quite the night of bonding, as it was our first week at Columbia College, little baby freshmen and proud. So, of course, we consumed poison from a water bottle stashed by a friend, we talked, we played games, and we laughed - an overall incredible night. The result, however, was detrimental, if not fatal. The old, stale, far too cheap beverage left its mark, and relentlessly at that. But it was my roommate's birthday and we refused to give up. We ignored our angry stomachs and forced ourselves to get dressed and celebrate... again. This is where Yolk steps in.
We entered, we sat, we pondered, we ordered, we waited. The options in this heaven would shock you - cinnamon buns converted into french toast, pancakes stuffed, topped, and spiced, twice the size of your head, omelets folded with so many vegetables they are almost quiche (and there's nothing wrong with that.) Even the juice mixtures caused stresses on our cramped little minds. This menu was a monster, and though we knew we had four years to defeat it, we were yearning to take it on all at once and right away. So we tried...
The grumpy waitress didn't even bother me as I caught the loving gaze of my strawberry-choco pancakes with two eggs over easy and a sausage-bacon combo. Orange juice. Coffee. Free refills. It was a dream and a nightmare.

I am beginning to mourn the life of my once iron stomach. It happened just a couple years back, after a trip to Nicaragua, where my gaping belly was forced to squeeze back to a healthy size. Beforehand I could consume the most atrocious things, and two helpings worth: Burgers and chili cheese fries with a chocolate shake to wash it down, plus the all important appetizer of mozzarella sticks or onion rings... or both. Half a casserole of chicken broccoli alfredo, fettucini, steamed green beans, roasted red potatoes, and two glasses of wine - carrot cake for dessert. Giant pots of muscles and bread. Entire doner kebabs. Paula Deen would have been proud. Since Nicaragua I have had to ration my eating, believing I can finish heaping plates of food without so much as a bathroom break, arriving at the end of my intestines, sorely disappointed in my progress (not even half the plate gone) and, incidentally, in great pain. Is this a blessing? Does this mean a flatter stomach and a less outrageous ass? Maybe... but is this happiness? No. Its more like a waste of good food. 
Pop a big ole' hangover onto this sour dilemma and you have my dissatisfaction with the pathetic advances I made that morning at Yolk. I had the determination and the yearning to carry forth, but not the stamina. In the end, my stomach won the battle. Several trips to the ladies room couldn't save me, I had to give in. 


I plan on returning to Yolk very soon, when my gut is strong and I feel slightly more confident in my financial situation. I have high hopes for this encounter, but for now I will leave you all with this stimulating inquisition (for which I am eager to hear your feedback and/or comments):


Chocolate covered bacon - entirely delicious or a shame on our race?