I love food. All you have to do is look at me and it becomes obvious that eating is one of the top three things I like to do. I’ll not say what the other two are but suffice it to say that they can involve food too. But I don’t totally understand the fanaticism that some people have toward certain foods. There are two groups in particular that seemed to have reached a common state of shear madness; wine connoisseurs and barbeque buffs. In the cases of wine or barbeque, it seems that the process and the trappings have taken on much more importance than the products themselves. Talking the right talk & walking the right walk is all important. In other words, the snobs have taken over.
As it was explained to me by a barbeque authority, (Take it for what it’s worth as half the men south of D.C. consider themselves to be an authority on BBQ; the other half are authorities on NASCAR.) the processes of wine tasting and barbeque judging are exactly the same. See it – smell it – taste it – and describe it. The description process being of utmost importance as it says more about you than it does about the product. Simply to say “I like it” or “I hate it” is considered to be in extremely poor taste and an offense to the party involved. A judge of either product must be sufficiently flowery in language and vague in substance to be considered expert. In other words, the best judges are political candidates.
For example, an expert wine taster might describe a wine in this manner: “This vintage comes from a less than robust grape that nevertheless shows high-toned estery, acetate aromas that may be pleasing to some palettes. Its oakness is unquestionable yet leaves an earthiness to be desired by the more liberated connoisseur.” It’s more of a Sandra Bullock than a Kim Kardashian and its lack of dark, mysterious undertones makes it more suitable for less serious occasions.
The judge at a barbeque cook-off would speak in this manner: “Woo- Boy! That there beer-butt chicken‘s got a real twang to it. It’s real obvious that this ol boy used a light beer to stick up that chicken’s butt which gives it a nice airy feel but I woulda tried a full-bodied beer of 5 % alcohol or higher, preferably of Anheuser-Busch distillation. That sauce has a good color & he swabbed it on just about right. Its combination of sweet and heat is darn good but more honey & less brown sugar would have given it more body and a more complex taste. I gave it a good bite but it didn’t bite back. Good enough to make ya slap yore Pappy but not yore Granny.”
What’s really interesting is that these two groups, no matter how different in style, seem to be coming together. Jean Pierre meets Joe Bob. There are wine web sites that have recipes for barbeque, ( calling for a non domestic beer to stick up that chicken) and barbeque sites that give advice on which wine goes best with Billy Don’s Thundering Chicken Thighs, (Mogen David’s fortified Mad Dog 20/20)
I have never understood the desire to make a competition out of doing something that you love. How do you judge something that is so subjective to individual taste? Some people like red; some people like white. Some like sweet and some like hot. Eat and drink what you like in moderation. If it were me, I’d drink the beer, quit messin with that chicken’s butt (that ain’t natural) and throw him on the grill while watching a college football game on TV, another one of the top three things I like to do.
Friday, March 4, 2016
Smokin Skeeters
As I get older, I find myself reminiscing more and more about my childhood. Time seems to almost always minimize the bad and exaggerate the good. That’s probably a good thing and I know that memories are always sweeter than reality.
For the most part, I missed out on the grandparent thing. My grandmothers had died many years before I was born. Life was tough on women – even just a generation or two ago.
I did have an elderly neighbor lady who served in that capacity. Miss Katie lived across the road in my grandfather’s old house. She was always, Miss Katie, even though she was a widow lady. She struggled financially but always produced a good garden and supplemented her income by crocheting a few items for folks who were kind enough to buy them from her.
Summertime was always the best. If my pals, Jimmy or Charlie weren’t around to play army or cowboy and indians, I always seemed to find myself on Katie’s front porch by late afternoon. She had a couple of rockers and a porch swing that suffered from heavy use.
Before any porch sittin’ however, chores had to be done. Lawn mowing was a big job for Katie. She covered over an acre with a push mower and it was usually a two-afternoon process. Sometimes I helped but as I look back, I now realize that I probably didn’t help enough.
By the second day of mowing, the first day’s grass clippings had sufficiently dried to be used for a special purpose.
Sitting on the porch as twilight approached and cooling off after a hard afternoon’s work was a pleasant experience, but only if you were able to keep the gnats and mosquitoes at bay.
Katie had a unique approach to insect control. Smoke would suffice to keep those little buggers away and partially dried grass clippings were perfect to maintain a nice white haze over the porch and the immediate lawn. Katie kept two slop jars on her porch and when it was time to “sit a spell”, I would gather up sufficient clippings to fill the enameled pots and set a slow burn. One slop jar would be placed at each end of the porch. If you don’t know what a slop jar is, ask somebody that’s older than dirt - like me.
Today when I see an old slop jar in an antique store, I immediately think of Katie – probably not the way she would have preferred to be remembered but I doubt she would have minded too much. And the smell of burning grass brings back a memory of a slow, peaceful 1960’s twilight listening to the steady creak of a rocker, the hum of the box fan just inside the screen door and the whine of an old farmer’s decrepit pickup as it fades away with the sunset on an old country road.
For the most part, I missed out on the grandparent thing. My grandmothers had died many years before I was born. Life was tough on women – even just a generation or two ago.
I did have an elderly neighbor lady who served in that capacity. Miss Katie lived across the road in my grandfather’s old house. She was always, Miss Katie, even though she was a widow lady. She struggled financially but always produced a good garden and supplemented her income by crocheting a few items for folks who were kind enough to buy them from her.
Summertime was always the best. If my pals, Jimmy or Charlie weren’t around to play army or cowboy and indians, I always seemed to find myself on Katie’s front porch by late afternoon. She had a couple of rockers and a porch swing that suffered from heavy use.
Before any porch sittin’ however, chores had to be done. Lawn mowing was a big job for Katie. She covered over an acre with a push mower and it was usually a two-afternoon process. Sometimes I helped but as I look back, I now realize that I probably didn’t help enough.
By the second day of mowing, the first day’s grass clippings had sufficiently dried to be used for a special purpose.
Sitting on the porch as twilight approached and cooling off after a hard afternoon’s work was a pleasant experience, but only if you were able to keep the gnats and mosquitoes at bay.
Katie had a unique approach to insect control. Smoke would suffice to keep those little buggers away and partially dried grass clippings were perfect to maintain a nice white haze over the porch and the immediate lawn. Katie kept two slop jars on her porch and when it was time to “sit a spell”, I would gather up sufficient clippings to fill the enameled pots and set a slow burn. One slop jar would be placed at each end of the porch. If you don’t know what a slop jar is, ask somebody that’s older than dirt - like me.
Today when I see an old slop jar in an antique store, I immediately think of Katie – probably not the way she would have preferred to be remembered but I doubt she would have minded too much. And the smell of burning grass brings back a memory of a slow, peaceful 1960’s twilight listening to the steady creak of a rocker, the hum of the box fan just inside the screen door and the whine of an old farmer’s decrepit pickup as it fades away with the sunset on an old country road.
Political opinions popping up this morning like mushrooms on a manure pile.
I wonder if God ever laughs? His sense of humor is without question- slathered in abundance atop all human interactions like whipped cream and sprinkles. But does he giggle,guffaw or roar occasionally with a good belly laugh? And if he does, is it the result of his own pranks upon his human herd or the absurd actions of humanity when left to its own devices?
I wonder if God ever laughs? His sense of humor is without question- slathered in abundance atop all human interactions like whipped cream and sprinkles. But does he giggle,guffaw or roar occasionally with a good belly laugh? And if he does, is it the result of his own pranks upon his human herd or the absurd actions of humanity when left to its own devices?
Pineapple on Top
It’s not that I have anything against pineapple. When we were kids, we ate pineapple straight out of the can or sometimes Mom would make some kind of dessert called an “upside down cake” for Sunday dinner. I never understood why it was called upside down because the pineapple was on top where it looked like it was supposed to be. Anyway, pineapple has its place in my diet – as a dessert or snack.
It doesn’t belong anywhere else. Lately restaurants have been putting pineapple in the oddest places. I guess they are in season now and the price has got so low that restaurants have decided they can afford to be creative with them. I’m speaking for most red blooded, meat-eating, iced-tea swilling American consumers when I say: STOP IT!!
I don’t want pineapple chunks on my pizza or in my salad and especially not on my cheeseburgers. My buddy, Terry and I went to a restaurant a few years back: one of those big chains with plastic potted flowers hanging from the ceiling and a ten minute wait before they seat you. The menus are different in these places. They have steaks and seafood and chicken but not like you would prepare at home or that your Mom put on the table. These dishes are dressed up a bit. They “blacken” almost any meat dish now. The first time I tried a blackened steak, I assumed it meant well done, but what it actually means is that it is coated in a half inch thick layer of spices which the chef then proceeds to burn to a dark black hue while the meat inside remains raw. And these restaurants aren’t satisfied unless your meal is covered with something sticky. Blackened steak topped with blue cheese cream sauce, grilled shrimp in a white wine and garlic sauce or a grilled chicken breast topped with a light chutney sauce. (I don’t know exactly what chutney is but I bet it’s chopped pineapple sautéed in pineapple juice and then blackened over a fire made from the wood of a pineapple tree.)
Terry was a Midwestern boy; strictly meat and potatoes. If it hasn’t mooed or oinked in its recent past, he wasn’t going to eat it. He even considered chicken (unless it was fried) to be a little suspect. We decided to play it safe and stick to cheeseburgers and fries. They had fourteen variations of the basic cheeseburger. From tofu burgers to Swiss mushroom burgers to bleu cheese burgers till we reached number twelve on the menu; the pineapple burger. I asked the waitress if there was any real meat in that one.
“Of course, it’s a genuine angus beef patty topped with a ring of pineapple and cottage cheese.”
My next question was - had anybody ever actually ordered one?
“I have to be honest. It’s not one of our most popular burgers. Come to think of it, I don’t think a man has ever ordered one; mostly little old ladies in hats with big purses.”
We tried to order a plain ol’ cheeseburger and fries. There wasn’t one and we were informed that we had to order from the menu. Terry was about to order breadsticks to go when I got creative. “We’ll have the pineapple burger with the pineapple and cottage cheese on the side on a bed of lettuce; extra ketchup and mustard, please.”
“Excellent choice, sir. Now what kind of fries would you like? We have Cajun fries, curly fries, cottage fries, steak fries, sweet potato fries or tofu fries?”
We ended up across the street at Wendy’s with our double cheeseburgers and not a pineapple in sight.
It doesn’t belong anywhere else. Lately restaurants have been putting pineapple in the oddest places. I guess they are in season now and the price has got so low that restaurants have decided they can afford to be creative with them. I’m speaking for most red blooded, meat-eating, iced-tea swilling American consumers when I say: STOP IT!!
I don’t want pineapple chunks on my pizza or in my salad and especially not on my cheeseburgers. My buddy, Terry and I went to a restaurant a few years back: one of those big chains with plastic potted flowers hanging from the ceiling and a ten minute wait before they seat you. The menus are different in these places. They have steaks and seafood and chicken but not like you would prepare at home or that your Mom put on the table. These dishes are dressed up a bit. They “blacken” almost any meat dish now. The first time I tried a blackened steak, I assumed it meant well done, but what it actually means is that it is coated in a half inch thick layer of spices which the chef then proceeds to burn to a dark black hue while the meat inside remains raw. And these restaurants aren’t satisfied unless your meal is covered with something sticky. Blackened steak topped with blue cheese cream sauce, grilled shrimp in a white wine and garlic sauce or a grilled chicken breast topped with a light chutney sauce. (I don’t know exactly what chutney is but I bet it’s chopped pineapple sautéed in pineapple juice and then blackened over a fire made from the wood of a pineapple tree.)
Terry was a Midwestern boy; strictly meat and potatoes. If it hasn’t mooed or oinked in its recent past, he wasn’t going to eat it. He even considered chicken (unless it was fried) to be a little suspect. We decided to play it safe and stick to cheeseburgers and fries. They had fourteen variations of the basic cheeseburger. From tofu burgers to Swiss mushroom burgers to bleu cheese burgers till we reached number twelve on the menu; the pineapple burger. I asked the waitress if there was any real meat in that one.
“Of course, it’s a genuine angus beef patty topped with a ring of pineapple and cottage cheese.”
My next question was - had anybody ever actually ordered one?
“I have to be honest. It’s not one of our most popular burgers. Come to think of it, I don’t think a man has ever ordered one; mostly little old ladies in hats with big purses.”
We tried to order a plain ol’ cheeseburger and fries. There wasn’t one and we were informed that we had to order from the menu. Terry was about to order breadsticks to go when I got creative. “We’ll have the pineapple burger with the pineapple and cottage cheese on the side on a bed of lettuce; extra ketchup and mustard, please.”
“Excellent choice, sir. Now what kind of fries would you like? We have Cajun fries, curly fries, cottage fries, steak fries, sweet potato fries or tofu fries?”
We ended up across the street at Wendy’s with our double cheeseburgers and not a pineapple in sight.
News Reporter: " the 3 jail escapees are STILL considered armed and dangerous this morning!". Darn - was hoping a good night's sleep would have mellowed em out a bit.
When subtle and oh so delicate sarcasm is lost in the vast digital universe of Facebook.
Punster: A dyslexic man walked into a bra.......
Comment: You misspelled "Bar"
Punster: Thank you so much. How's my punctuation?
Comment: Cool but you really shouldn't imply that all dyslexics drink. I mean what's the point?
Punster: Exactly
Morning news commentator: "I'm black and I don't take offense at a white actor playing Michael Jackson. After all, look at him in his later years- he was very light skinned and had white features. I just want to know- can this white guy dance? hmmmm
When subtle and oh so delicate sarcasm is lost in the vast digital universe of Facebook.
Punster: A dyslexic man walked into a bra.......
Comment: You misspelled "Bar"
Punster: Thank you so much. How's my punctuation?
Comment: Cool but you really shouldn't imply that all dyslexics drink. I mean what's the point?
Punster: Exactly
Morning news commentator: "I'm black and I don't take offense at a white actor playing Michael Jackson. After all, look at him in his later years- he was very light skinned and had white features. I just want to know- can this white guy dance? hmmmm
Where's all the fat people at?
Ever notice there's not any fat folks in most commercials ( unless it's a "before" picture for a weight loss product. Just watched a commercial set in a mall...dozens of folks walking around- all young, thin and well dressed. Not a gut, gray hair or" I'm with Stupid " t- shirt in sight. Think about that next time you're in North Park mall or heaven forbid- Walmart.
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