End of the Line

Well friends,

This may be the final post for the ol' hotdog (Mmmm, hotdog) unless anyone pitches a bitch about it. I'm trying to narrow these things down, and just do one or two well. I really enjoyed this blog, I guess because I really like to eat. I wanted to share something with all of you, or both of you, lol, before I wrap this up. I want to tell you about this cat named Alistair Crowley. He was a roaring twenties nut bar, who became a sort of mystic, wizard/writer/occult god. He said, did, wrote more than I can go in to, and if you have never heard of him, then you are a tard. He had a major influence on a lot of important people and decisions, including lots of awesome 60's and 70's music. Anyhoo, the reason I bring him up is that he once wrote a series of essay's called the "Simon Iff" papers (I think) that I found very interesting. One in particular was called "Suffer the Little Children" and in it, an extremely opulent meal was prepared and enjoyed on a beach, at night. In the story, the menu is described in very good detail, and ever since I first read it years ago, I have considered it to be one of the first things I would try to do if I ever had the money. I also consider it to be a menu I would request if I died and went to heaven or any other reality in which I could conjure this table up. It is the absolute poster for the life style of the rich in the 1920's, and it is one of my life dreams to create this meal for myself and friends and family. I will now "paste" the menu from the story, and let you check it out. At least two of the items are illegal, and one is still questionable. Let me know what you think, and if I ever DO get that cash, I will see you all at a table like the one in the photo down below. Chris-

"He had ordered the meal, moreover: oysters, clear green turtle, pompano en papillote, mallard duck au sang with coeur de palmier salad, bavaroise au chocolat, and a savoury invented by himself consisting of Toast Melba spread with mushrooms, anchovies, olives and pimento made into a paste. This was covered with bay-leaves, on which was spread a mixture of caviar, raw onions, ginseng, and Bombay Duck, sprinkled lightly with powdered hashish.
The wine list was equally elaborate. Cocktails consisting of two teaspoonfuls of liqueur brandy, one of Curacoa, and one of laudanum preceded the repast. With the oysters he caused Chablis to be served, with the soup Tokay, with the fish Chateau Yquem. The duck was accompanied by Mumm Cordon Rouge 1904. The sweet was enriched by a marvelous sauce with a basis of Creme de Cacao, and the savoury fortified with an astonishingly fine Burgundy of incomparable body and bouquet. The coffee was Turkish, prepared by Simon himself at the table, and perfected by the addition of an aromatic consisting of essential oil of cedar-wood and ambergris.
The liqueurs were Green Chartreuse of the original shipping, a particular Absinthe from a private still belonging to a friend of Simon Iff living in Switzerland among the crags of Jura, and an introuvable Metternich brandy. With the nuts came Château Margaux, Port, and a Madeira dating from William the Fourth.
An unopened bottle of rye whisky was also placed prominently on the table. There must be a skeleton, said Simon Iff, at every banquet".

Dont Be Skird.

I had the pleasure of plopping my fat-ass down for lunch on Fisher Island the other day, in Miami. I don't know much about the place, except that you can not get there by car, and it is either a home, or a home away from home for some of the worlds most wealthy people (think Oprah). The entire experience should have been intimidating, but, because of my natural need to invade places I would not normally be, and proper upbringing ( my Mother always took us with her to any function she could get us into, so we would not act like tard's if we ever had to do anything "fancy") I sat there like I owned the place, and had a ball. I took the above picture of my dessert because a little boy at the table told us all that "his dessert was too pretty, and he could not mess it up" without a picture. I agreed, and we all whipped out the cameras (or camera phones) and got a nice shot. The rest of the meal was incredible, and included what I think was a maple salmon, and a salad drizzled with oil and Balsamic vinegar, and the meal was quickly followed by a very fine cup of strong, Cuban coffee. We were seated outside, near some yachts that were docked, and larger than the mind can understand. The point to all of this is that, if you get a chance to eat somewhere nice, do it. You can't really appreciate "comfort food" if you never eat ultra fancy food while wearing a stuffy suit. A picture of the dessert in question is up top, and I put a few pictures of the island down below. Nice.

Honey Bunches of Blows

This blog is supposed to be about the food I love, but I got to be real here. I'm trying to watch one of my favorite shows, and every damn commercial is for Honey Bunches of crap, the "new" cereal. I'm all into my show (a "paranormal" ghost type show) and the whole mood gets blown out by a bunch of screaming factory workers, complete with plastic hair nets, all jacked up about a bowl of cereal. I have never tried the stuff, and I swear on all things holy that I never will. The commercial pisses me off so bad, I just could not do it. I don't know who Post is paying for advertising, but I hope they paid them in the sorry ass cereal flakes for this one. May the "New Economy" shut down that cereal factory, and put the hearing impaired workers on the street. Maybe then I will try their precious cereal, moistened with their tears.

"Fatback", Its BACK!!!

I'm talking about deep fried, salted pork fat! We have been tricked into believing that people actually care about what they eat. Not so much. Not all of them, anyway. I know lots of folks still use it to season certain dishes- beans, greens, etc. But these people at a Buffet joint I went to in Waycross Georgia the other day were not just eating it on its on, they were "all you can eating" it. Deep fried, salty goodness. The secret ingredient was love. And fat.

Hamburger Helplessness

"I don't know why they call it Hamburger Helper, Clark, it does just fine on its own!"

I wonder how many Americans knew what the hell Cousin Eddie was talking about when he said that on the original "National Lampoon's Vacation" back in 83? I damn sure knew.

I have been down with the helper for as long as I can remember. That does not mean that I love it, it just means I have always been broke. Even during short times when things were "high cotton" around my place, there was always room for the four-fingered bastard to slip into a greasy pan on my stove. I have tried every one of the complex flavors that the helper is coming with these days. They all taste exactly the same- like the box they came in, add salt. If you disagree, then you are a rich jackass that probably does not even know how to turn your water back on after the man shuts it off for not paying the bill. I think what I'm trying to say is, the helper belongs to the poor.

The other day, I saw a funny commercial. It was a nice black family, talking about how much they love to eat some Hamburger Helper, and then just sit around the table and talk about all the exciting things they did that day. You know, how they went to work, or to look for work, then came home and prayed to Jesus that the lights were still on. Then, another commercial came on following that one (back to back, actually). It was a wealthy white family, sitting in front of a lap-top, trying to figure out how to manage their kid's cell phone minutes. As the parents were talking, the kid's were shown outside the window, washing the family's new Volvo while wearing Ipod's and squirting water on each other. I thought it was really cool. Lets not bullshit each other with who the helper serves. Betty-Crocker brands does not, and they never have. They serve folks like me, usually broke, usually hungry, willing to eat high quantity crap as long as it has some kind of cheese melted on it. That's me, and most people I know, and the kind of people I want to enjoy this blog. Besides, the Natural Light will carry most anything along. And if you don't know what Natural Light is, then get out of my blog, you rich jackass.

The Proof

Here's the proof that I still eat like I have a death wish. Its a "tagged and bagged" chili cheese dog, from the gas station. Looks like shit in a plastic bag, tastes like heaven. I washed it down with a gas station nacho, cheese, chili and jalapeno mixture in a paper bowl. You know it-

And this, my brothers, is called "chicken stew"- It is homemade by a good friend of mine, who amazingly enough, is an awesome cook though completely lacking a sense of smell. I don't know how he does it. He periodically releases a "batch" of the stew (following some marker on a lunar calender, I believe) and hand delivers it to his chosen people. My entire family gets giddy when they know its coming. The photo is not blurred- I had drank about eight of those PBR's and as far as I know, this is what it actually looked like. Awesome.

The King And I

Just raggin' on the "King" this week. First, B.K. has a new french fry and ketchup flavored potato chip on the market- photo above. Funny, because the last time I bought fries from Burger King, they taste like stale potato chips! Weired. Also, I noticed that written across the bottom of the drive through menu board, is "picture menu available at the window" which is for people who are illiterate to "point" to the item they want to purchase. I don't know what is more hilarious, the idea that there would be one person in this country who does not know what they sell at Burger King well enough to order without a menu, or that someone who could not read the word "Whopper" could read THE DAMN MESSAGE ABOUT THE PICTURE MENU!!!!