On wiener schnitzel & beer

This weekend I drank beer. Actual, real life beer and not even on accident. One of my roomies and I decided last minute to hit up Oakland’s ‘Oaktoberfest’ and I now have a commemorative stein because of it. I even found wiener schnitzel and did a happy dance while I squeezed lemon everywhere and a small child tried to steal my beer. So if you are not intimately familiar with the inner workings of my brain, perhaps you don’t already know that I super hate beer and I super love wiener schnitzel. I generally think beer takes like urine (or what I imagine urine tastes like), and I generally think breadcrumbed meat drenched in lemon juice tastes like heaven (or what I imagine heaven tastes like). But really though, it’s my favorite food, and yes, it is traditionally made out of poor innocent baby cows, but that’s not why I like it (STOP JUDGING ME). My dad makes it with adult cows, the kinds with mortgages and briefcases, and that somehow makes it more okay. Whatever. It’s delicious and so was that french toast. I even managed to drink three full glasses of beer in bajillion degree heat and survived until 5pm when I fell asleep and didn’t emerge until the next day. I’m practically an old cow about to be turned into burger meat, amiright?