WARNING: If you don’t like appalling displays of meatiness, you’ll want to stop here. Otherwise, strap on your drooling bib and get ready to catch the drips.

Profiled by The New York Times and reviled by lovers of heart health everywhere, the Bacon Explosion is one part bacon, one part sausage, and all parts belly-busting. My co-worker Adam has been talking about it basically since the day he started at our company years ago; in fact, he probably mentioned his desire to concoct one and bring it into the office to share in order to get hired.

In the throngs of grilling season, he finally made good on his word and brought us two ludicrous four-pound logs of meat, all covered in Sweet Baby Ray’s best BBQ sauce. It was crumbled bacon wrapped in sausage latticed in bacon, and the sound of our “mmm”-ing and “ohmygod”-ing in the lunchroom was deafening.

The myth. The legend. The meat.

The man of the hour. He’s a low-carb dieter, so this was actually not too off-plan for him. Well, except for the 5000 calories and 500 grams of fat the Times accords it.

It was sausagey and

bacony at the same time

and can really only be described with one word, used with its true meaning in mind:

It was awash in sweetness and spiciness, chewiness and crispiness, meatiness and meatiness. It wasn’t what you’d call a balanced dish; there was nothing to cut the fat, as they say, nothing bright nor fresh about it. It was pure richness, and when combined with Popeye’s biscuits, it was like a holy trinity.

We all took the biggest slice we felt comfortable keeping our other co-workers from, thinking we’d come back later for seconds and thirds, but most of us pooped out even before the first round was over. This thing was filling. For mind, body, and soul.

Thanks to the badass Brooklynauts for featuring my photo of their craaaaazy-delicious pretzel-breaded hot dog on their site this week!

Check out their site for reviews of more beer than you ever knew existed, crushing ice cream defeats (and victories!), and plenty of meatball/testicle jokes! (Okay, like one joke. But still.)

This is how my co-workers and I celebrated Pi Day yesterday:

I lured everyone to the kitchen with promises of “gourmet apple pie” and “artisan ice cream”. I secretly don’t think anyone was disappointed.

I have basically a nonstop craving for the Quesadilla Enorme from Baby Bo’s Cantina in Murray Hill. There’s always a crazy wait to get into the place, so discovering that they deliver to my boyfriend’s apartment is the best/worst thing to happen to my midsection in a long time.

The Quesadilla Enorme is a giant tortilla splayed out and covered in cheese, potatoes, a dark rich BBQ sauce, and your choice of protein, covered with another tortilla, grilled until the edges get perfectly crisp, topped with dollops of guacamole, creamy chipotle sauce, jalapenos, and sour cream, and served with chips and salsa OMG.

I always order the pork version, but I’m preeeeeetty sure the kitchen staff had something else on their minds last time I got it:

In honor of the opening of Pop-Tarts World–mass market pastry retail heaven for those of us who were under the impression that only four or five flavors of Pop-Tarts existed–in Times Square this month, my officemates and I decided to make the mythical Pop-Tart Ice Cream Sandwich.

Thanks to Fresh Direct, we had the followed delivered to our office last Friday morning:

• Frosted Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tarts
• Frosted Strawberry with Sprinkles Pop-Tarts
• Edy’s Grand Vanilla Bean ice cream
• Edy’s Grand Chocolate ice cream
• Edy’s Cookies ‘N Cream ice cream
• Edy’s Grand Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream
• Edy’s Slow-Churned French Silk ice cream (possibly my favourite storeice cream in the world)
• Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra ice cream

And with those ingredients, we made these:

strawberry with vanilla ice cream

brown sugar cinnamon with French Silk ice cream

The impending glee was too much for Chantee to handle,

but our notoriously non-gluttonous German interns Sven and Christoph surprisingly dove right in:

And speaking of diving right in, if you accidentally drop Pop-Tart down your bra, expect this from me:

This is one of those instances where once you have it, you can’t not have it. Like mixing heavy cream into iced coffee, spooning jelly into the center of a zeppole, or deep-frying a Snickers bar, I will forever be disappointed when there’s not a Pop-Tart in my dish of ice cream. The synthetic sugariness of it appeals so much to the truly indulgent part of me, and the lack of utensils needed to eat it appeals to my raised-in-a-barn-ness.