Shaken, Not Stirred

I don’t own a toaster, or a blender, or a muffin tin. My kitchen lacks a broom that wasn’t once owned by a Blair Witch, a single Pyrex, or a stovetop that doesn’t singe the living bejeezus out of anything set atop it.

…But I own a milkshake maker. I also own a mini George Foreman and a small pastry decorating collection, and in my old age I will probably own the entirety of QVC or wind up like one of those chicks in Grey Gardens.



The now dust-shellacked appliance lives amongst a clutter of party booze and Solo cups above the refrigerator, where sadly, it has brought about almost as many shakes as it has boys to my yard (considering that my front “yard”= a slab of dried turd coated-concrete, and my backyard is double fenced, padlocked, and barb-wired, this number is not aplenty). At this rate, I should probz start investigating how much I could collect for the thing at my local eBay store.

A painful craving as of late may just save the fate of the brave little milkshake maker. The milkshake has nursed me through thick, thin, and occasionally, malty situations. The tried and true vanilla shake came to my aid when my impacted wisdom teeth were robbed from my once younger and wiser mouth. Recovery days were spent deliriously watching reruns of RHOC (although at the time I would’ve honestly sworn that the blur of bad tans and blonde weaves was in fact, the Muppet Show), and sucking down a bevy of shakes like no tomorrow, most of which dribbled sadly down my anesthetized chin. With milkshake in hand and pain meds in veins, I was on top of the whole damn World.


Black and white was my ride or die when I found myself habitually “under the weather” on any given Sunday toward the conclusion of my final year as a collegiate, and was the only thing that ever rallied me from my grimy apartment carpet. That, and the looming fear of contracting some form of floor-borne tetanus toward the tenth hour.

Before I’m compelled to take my practically vintage appliance off the shelf to test drive a career as a stay at home Blendista, I deemed it necessary to do some inspirational research for a milkshake that is better than…yours. Na na, na, na. na.

The Gottsa Have It

Get the: Cookies and cream at Gott’s Roadside. Although I was probably born at least 70% cookie monster, I am completely impartial in saying that this is a real good shake with an inequitable ratio of cookie to cream…but who’s complainin’?


Andy Wanna Milkshake?

Get the: Chocolate malt at Orphan Andy’s. Get. It. Not sure if this is actually a really delicious malt, or if the appeal of the divey 24-hour diner with dangerous proximity to Hot Cookie is what keeps me and a dedicated galpal coming back for weekly visits. I can confidently claim, however, that there is nothing worse than a thin, milky shake (also nothing worse than the word milky), and Orphan Andy’s dishes theirs up thick enough to dig into with a spoon, or perhaps two.

The Supa Dupa

Get the: Double chocolate cookie at Super Duper Burger. The choco-on-choco shake was discovered by Godsend accident, and has become an integral component of my well-rounded Supa Dupa order. If you’re extra lucky, you’ll even find some golden chocolate chip cookie blended in the chocolaty oreo rummage.

The Pie in the Sky:

Get the: …Ok so maybe I can’t make an informed suggestion just yet, as my youthful arteries break out into an anxious cry every time I’ve stepped near this playground for cardiac failure. Something about sucking down a fat slice o’ pie engulfed by a jug-sized milkshake seems to call for some surrious dedication and preparation– neither of which I can justify for the success of this amateur blog. That said, I don’t see what could be too Godawful about a peanut butter chocolate pie milkshake, and hope that the food pornography below incites a sweet tooth more dedicated than I to give this thing a try.


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