They say that baseball is the national past time, but it's arguable that if you don't watch the Superbowl, somehow you're less of an American.
Not only is it a tradition in my house to spend the day cooking finger food, discussing politics and watching the 8-hour pregame, but also for us to divide so half of us cheer on one team and half the other. Unless the Cowboys are playing, in which case we all deck out in silver and blue and swish our pompoms.
We love the Cowboys, but I can't stand Romo the Homo.
So on this most honorable day, we huddle up around the coffee table, laden with fried and baked goodies and do our best to yell and hollar at the screen as though the refs and players can hear us.
Spicy Buffalo wings, a la Pete.
My homemade spinach and artichoke dip.
The main dish: slow cooked pulled pork sandwiches.
We laugh at the commercials (my favorite is easily the Budweiser Tiny Dancer commercial), we do our best to predict the next play, and we don't care who's playing; we're watching.
But it's halftime and we all take turns running to the bathroom and I'm up in 2.
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