While chatting with my friend Sarah over lunch last Saturday, we discussed many things –  including this blog (thanks for the shout-out by the way).  After Sarah asked me to never again post disgusting photos of deep-fried tarantulas, she came up with a fantastic idea.

“What if you invited your readers to send in their anonymous food confessions?  Confessions about things they’re too embarrassed to publicly admit that they enjoy eating?”

Readers, I ask you now: What is your culinary depravity?  The thing you know you shouldn’t like, but you enjoy anyway?  The item in which you can only indulge when the house is empty and the lights are off?

And, since adding a comment to this post effectively negates the whole “anonymous” thing, I want you to send me your confessions via email.  Click on the “Ask Wendalicious” link over there on the right, and send me a short and sweet description of your food sins. I want to know what it is, how you like to eat it, if you allow anyone to witness the ingestion, and if you plan on continuing down the garden path to hell.  Confess! I’ll post every submission here on the blog, as I receive them, with no identifying marks of any kind.

Of course, if you don’t care who is all up in your business, you are more than welcome to leave a comment on this post, baring your naughty soul to all who enter here.

I’ll start: I love Long John Silver’s Fish.  Big and greasy, dipped in tons of industrial tartar sauce.  Followed by a mouthful of “crispies” – those miscellaneous crumbs of fried batter that got splattered into the oil, and came back up in the Fryalator with the fish.  Awful, horrible, nasty, and delectable.  I never go to LJS with friends – it’s a solo experience,  in which I go through the drive-thru, park in the LJS lot, and surreptitiously devour the fish (and crispies, and hushpuppies), washing it all down with a Diet Pepsi (no need to remind me of what’s wrong with that).  Immediately following, I find a nearby trash can and deposit the evidence.   That way, no one can witness the horror, and my car doesn’t end up smelling like an Atlantic City pier at noon.

Now you go.