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-Alex who knows that you know he is right.
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
The supply lines remain intact
Today a rider from Dixie brought our Northern outpost a box of much needed supplies. Included were an ample supply of country bacon flavored grits, Duke's Mayo, and sugar cured country ham. The much needed rations arrived just in time for the coming Thanksgiving day offensive. Thanks Becky and Tommy for the care package.
Head start round 2: and nothing on earth can save you now.
I could tell you that I was hungry and that would probably be the truth but at the moment I really can't remember. All it took was a mention in passing and I was moving for my keys... ...and there is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of a McRib binge.
They brought it back. Again. And made a big deal about it. Again. Damn them. But I can't blame it all on the preformed patty, the bbq soaked onions or the pickles as I had already moved the vise out of the way and was reclining on the couch, but I am pretty sure there was a round two on the horizon but now I am not so certain.
A quick double-dose of cheap light beer is starting to bring me back around, but I still feel like some part of me may be slipping away and working its way south to fight the good fight.
The whip finish tool is just out of reach. If I could get to it, maybe I could use it to snag that pack of hooks and a bobbin. My finger tips tickle the thin cool metal. Maybe all is not lost. Maybe I can find the will to continue, string a few more together, pave my way towards preparedness with feathers and flash.
Andy Dufresne said that hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things... but he probably never ate at McDonalds.
Invasives: If you can't beat em... eat em...
photo via Wikipedia
A quote from a recent article via IPSNewsnet.com about increased Lionfish numbers off of the coast of Jamaica:
"Agriculture and Fisheries minister Christopher Tufton is already leading an aggressive public education campaign to get Jamaicans eating lionfish. Television programmes, videos of high-profile locals like Prime Minister Bruce Golding enjoying meals of lionfish, and some of the hotel industry's most decorated chefs preparing what Tufton describes as "good food" are broadcast regularly. Tufton believes that Jamaicans can eat their way out of the lionfish problem. "I believe the way to control the lionfish is to promote its consumption. We are going to bring in chefs who know how to prepare them and we are going to eat them," Tufton said at the start of the campaign."
No word yet on how they taste with a nice jerk sauce and a Red Stripe...
Found in the Urban Wild: S.Jersey's Best Dry Rub Ribs
Lumpy's BBQ and Pizza, 1892 Route 70 E Cherry Hill, NJ.
An unlikely find between the Cash for Gold store and the Mathnasium. Located about twelve miles from the Land of the Cheese Steaks, Lumpy's has some of the best hickory smoked, dry rub ribs we have feasted on in some time (read as since moving North of the Mason Dixon). The pulled pork was decent as well. I asked the chef why they bother with pizza and he said it was because the ovens came with the place.
We neglected the urge to sell our gold for cash or do any mental gymnastics...and opted instead for a to go order of ribs.
It happens sometimes
It might be sad to see, but you have to understand that it occasionally cannot be helped. An indulgence of epic proportions: shitty awesome beer drunk, food that doesn't fit in a pyramid, the flatulence flows in the heater fan and a never ending stream of B rating netflix sustain a life more ordinary than anyone would want to admit....
But then the ghost of Bruce Lee showed up and we kicked ass, and Matt Damon came over, but not like the regular Matt Damon, the Bourne Identity Matt Damon and it was awesome and we went all tactical on some bad guys. Then we all drank a handle of Black Velvet and watched Step Brothers in the man cave while boxing with hulk hands.
We might go fishing tomorrow.
-Alex and Aaron
Whiteyville 2009
I think his driver's license says John, but I can't say for sure and I have always called him Whitey. He is retired, but occasionally fills in behind the counter at the local Orvis store, where I met him a few years ago.Every year he balls his trailer and burns gas to a campsite north of 260 on Country Road 1325. The trailer-lined dirt circle with its industrially stocked chow tent and monstrous fire pit is base camp for dirty smelly fishy men, and is just another excuse to go to the mountains and drink and act retarded. After you wake up late and slap off a headache and eat a breakfast that would make a Waffle House line cook jealous, you might even have time to go wet a line.
Sticking with our usual modus operandi, Aaron and I set off for the mountains well after dark and arrived clanking and groaning around 3am, raising the pop up camper with as little hammering and pounding as possible. It was kinda cold, not like freeze-your-eye-lids-shut-and-your-fingers-to-your-man-parts-while-trying-to-pee-in-the-dark-without-falling-over cold, but a welcome 26° as we climb into sleep for a few hours, The travel over, and now on mountain time. Participants we are for the second year.
The Camp - photographic evidence:
For our breakfast, Aaron and I scrambled up some eggs, and made some kick-ass sauteed potatoes with jalapeno-smoked bacon, diced and blackened chicken breast and bell pepper topped with a cheese sauce and a tortilla on the side. We don't fuck around when it comes to grub, and neither does anyone else in camp if you haven't gotten the drift.
The Fishy Stuff - photographic evidence:
Silver Creek is a few mile long stretch of skinny, slow moving water that comes down from Silver Creek Hatchery, where the Native Apache trout are bread to be stocked in White Mountain Lakes.
The person who comes up with the best name for him will win something sweet.
-Alex
"Hey Papa, What's for Dinner?"
Papa's Key West Office Space - Photo FlyfishMagazine.com
A $12,500 cashiers check payable to Kenneth W. Rendell Inc. gets you four manuscripts relating to Ernest Hemingway, one of which gives us insight into the diet of the famous author:
"In case you hear they want an intimate what eats, pleasures, dis-likes angle this may save time. Technical crap of the non-intellectual type that people ask: What does he eat: When driving cross-country breakfasting in a lunch counter: A ham and egg sandwich with a slice of raw onion and a cup of coffee with milk. At home: bacon and one egg with tea and fruit juice. Or kippers tea and fruit juice or when he thinks he can afford it maqueau vin blanc tea and fruit juice. Can eat the same breakfast for a week or ten days then likes to switch. Loves good food but would rather eat a single sandwich anytime than a mediocre meal. Stern disciplinarian on the amount he eats when he believes he is not getting sufficient excercise. Usually eats one full meal a day. Loves all good cooking especially French and some parts of Italy but thinks the chinese cooking is best of all. Loves to eat game and fish and can live on them alone for months at a time. (Recall the cabin) Loves American cooking but needs lots of exercise to be able to eat it. Dislikes: Parsnips, oat-meal, polenta. Loves: pie, ham and eggs, roast turkey with stuffing and cranberry sauce, rare steaks and all meats. Also young green onions, radishes, raw turnips. Favourite vegetable artichoke. Cooks trout very well (I hope) Loves (for loves can use likes) chili-con carne, all Mexican dishes. When by himself will eat a bowl of chili, drink a bottle of red-wine and read with the meal. Put in Blacky.
Let us know if you buy them, we would enjoy a look.
Diagnosis: Fat
My truck is the only vehicle in the parking lot. I step out, shut the door and take a deep breath. It is a cloudy afternoon, but the blacktop leaks heat into the souls of my worn-out sneakers as I walk away from the furd and towards the medically-nondescript tan building.
The door is locked, and I put my face close to the glass, hands cupped around my eyes to cut the glare. Suddenly a very pregnant but very cute blond pops into view and I take a step back as she unlocks the bolt.
"Are you Alex?" I nod and she pushes the door the rest of the way open and I step inside. The scene is your basic medical waiting space: Pinkish-but-not-quite wall paper surrounds comfortable-but-not-quite wood and fabric furniture sprinkled with various cross-gender reading material, and a fish tank on the back wall.
I take a seat in the corner and pretend to be interested a National Geographic as I spy on the receptionist; I would guess 8 months, but she is very thin which makes it hard to tell. While I was staring and thinking about how I have been told some women have increased sex drive late in their pregnancy, she looks up from behind the counter, our eyes meet. Abort! Abort! I flip a page in the magazine and glance back up and she half smiles and tells me the doctor is back and will be with me shortly. Busted.
I am not here for any reason in particular, just a check up. But there is always that little nagging vioce deep in the back of your mind telling you that they are going to find something and your day will be totally ruined. Luckily, I am not old enough to get the lubed-finger of doom just yet.
I toss the magazine aside, and as I stare at the fish tank wondering what material would make a good fish-flake-food fly when the Doc calls me into the back.
He is a small man, and standing next to each other I can't help but think we would looks like the cover of the movie Twins, if Arnold had a gut and Danny Devito lost 60 pounds that is.
We exchange pleasantries and hows-your-mothers as we walk back into the exam room. Fifteen minutes and the standard what-have-you later the Doc is ready to lay it on me. He tosses some unintelligible paperwork on the table, adjusts his spectacles and takes a seat on the ever present rolley stool.
'Well, your blood pressure is great, and you seem to be pretty healthy but...." (here it comes) "I would like to see you lose some weight." Then he goes on to explain that walking is not really exorcise and 40oz curls don't count either, and I should cut down on the fast-food. Bummer. I told him if walking isn't doing me any good I guess I will just have to start driving to the convenience store across the street when I run out of beer. He didn't laugh.
He tells me that a monthly membership to a gym is not that much money, and explains that he loves to get up at the crack of dawn and work out and shower at the gym, and how great it is and how much money he saves on his water bill from showering there.
I tell him I think he has a fetish for showering around sweaty dudes, and he threatens me with a prostate exam. I told him to forget it, and that area is off-limits, especially to guys who like hanging around YMCA locker rooms. Plus, he may be in good shape but I got at least a benjamin on the Doc and I think I could take him.
As he walked me to the door, I look for the pregnant-hotness but she is nowhere to be found. I promise the Doc to look into some exorcise options, and head out the door toward the furd, hearing the door click locked behind me.
I close the door, turn the key and start to head home. After a few blocks I see a Sonic Drive-In, and wonderful images of onion rings and tater tots start to dance around my head. My mouth salivates, and my hand instinctively starts goes for the turn signal. But something stops me, and my hand falls back to the arm rest.
The Doc's words ring in my head, I fight to keep my foot off the break pedal. I begin to shake uncontrollably as the entrance to fried deliciousness approaches quickly. I let out a primal scream and throw the wheel to the left away from the onion rings and tots, and spin-out across 3 lanes of traffic sending women and children and pets fleeing for their lives.
The world spins as I careen over a curb and through some shrubbery as fast food wrappers and empty water bottles fly like crazed bats around my head. The vehicle comes to a screeching halt, and I lift my head and slowly look around.
I am in a parking lot, no not the lot itself, but a strange curved little roadway to one side of the it. I hear a strange voice outside the car asking me something. Asking what they can get for me today? What the hell is going on? I roll down the window and staring right back at me is a glowing menu of the Jack in the Box variety. The woman repeats the question, as I dumbly stare at the little speaker.
Nothing, I want nothing you evil temptress! But my mouth betrays me! "Uh.... I will take a number 4, I guess."
"And to drink?"
Nothing to drink either you dummy! My brain screams at my rumbling stomach. "Uh, a Sprite.... large"
Fail.
-Alex who swears he doesn't have a "thing" for pregnant chicks, unless they have cheeseburgers.
The door is locked, and I put my face close to the glass, hands cupped around my eyes to cut the glare. Suddenly a very pregnant but very cute blond pops into view and I take a step back as she unlocks the bolt.
"Are you Alex?" I nod and she pushes the door the rest of the way open and I step inside. The scene is your basic medical waiting space: Pinkish-but-not-quite wall paper surrounds comfortable-but-not-quite wood and fabric furniture sprinkled with various cross-gender reading material, and a fish tank on the back wall.
I take a seat in the corner and pretend to be interested a National Geographic as I spy on the receptionist; I would guess 8 months, but she is very thin which makes it hard to tell. While I was staring and thinking about how I have been told some women have increased sex drive late in their pregnancy, she looks up from behind the counter, our eyes meet. Abort! Abort! I flip a page in the magazine and glance back up and she half smiles and tells me the doctor is back and will be with me shortly. Busted.
I am not here for any reason in particular, just a check up. But there is always that little nagging vioce deep in the back of your mind telling you that they are going to find something and your day will be totally ruined. Luckily, I am not old enough to get the lubed-finger of doom just yet.
I toss the magazine aside, and as I stare at the fish tank wondering what material would make a good fish-flake-food fly when the Doc calls me into the back.
He is a small man, and standing next to each other I can't help but think we would looks like the cover of the movie Twins, if Arnold had a gut and Danny Devito lost 60 pounds that is.
We exchange pleasantries and hows-your-mothers as we walk back into the exam room. Fifteen minutes and the standard what-have-you later the Doc is ready to lay it on me. He tosses some unintelligible paperwork on the table, adjusts his spectacles and takes a seat on the ever present rolley stool.
'Well, your blood pressure is great, and you seem to be pretty healthy but...." (here it comes) "I would like to see you lose some weight." Then he goes on to explain that walking is not really exorcise and 40oz curls don't count either, and I should cut down on the fast-food. Bummer. I told him if walking isn't doing me any good I guess I will just have to start driving to the convenience store across the street when I run out of beer. He didn't laugh.
He tells me that a monthly membership to a gym is not that much money, and explains that he loves to get up at the crack of dawn and work out and shower at the gym, and how great it is and how much money he saves on his water bill from showering there.
I tell him I think he has a fetish for showering around sweaty dudes, and he threatens me with a prostate exam. I told him to forget it, and that area is off-limits, especially to guys who like hanging around YMCA locker rooms. Plus, he may be in good shape but I got at least a benjamin on the Doc and I think I could take him.
As he walked me to the door, I look for the pregnant-hotness but she is nowhere to be found. I promise the Doc to look into some exorcise options, and head out the door toward the furd, hearing the door click locked behind me.
I close the door, turn the key and start to head home. After a few blocks I see a Sonic Drive-In, and wonderful images of onion rings and tater tots start to dance around my head. My mouth salivates, and my hand instinctively starts goes for the turn signal. But something stops me, and my hand falls back to the arm rest.
The Doc's words ring in my head, I fight to keep my foot off the break pedal. I begin to shake uncontrollably as the entrance to fried deliciousness approaches quickly. I let out a primal scream and throw the wheel to the left away from the onion rings and tots, and spin-out across 3 lanes of traffic sending women and children and pets fleeing for their lives.
The world spins as I careen over a curb and through some shrubbery as fast food wrappers and empty water bottles fly like crazed bats around my head. The vehicle comes to a screeching halt, and I lift my head and slowly look around.
I am in a parking lot, no not the lot itself, but a strange curved little roadway to one side of the it. I hear a strange voice outside the car asking me something. Asking what they can get for me today? What the hell is going on? I roll down the window and staring right back at me is a glowing menu of the Jack in the Box variety. The woman repeats the question, as I dumbly stare at the little speaker.
Nothing, I want nothing you evil temptress! But my mouth betrays me! "Uh.... I will take a number 4, I guess."
"And to drink?"
Nothing to drink either you dummy! My brain screams at my rumbling stomach. "Uh, a Sprite.... large"
Fail.
-Alex who swears he doesn't have a "thing" for pregnant chicks, unless they have cheeseburgers.
Food: Candied Trout
Available from Cunningham's Scotch Cold Smoking; trout that will satisfy the angler's sweet tooth.
A favourite west coast treat, first developed by native peoples renowned for their creative smoked fish delicacies. At Cunningham's we put a twist on the idea by using trout instead of salmon. Our candy is marinated then cold smoked for 25 hours. When it has lost about 35% of its moisture it is finally kippered. It is sold vacuum-packed and frozen in portions between 110 and 180 grams.
FGFF goes to the Buffet
So Aaron and I drove up to Phoenix Monday to try and catch some carp, but they were all jerks and none wanted to play with us.
Now its approaching dark and the Circle-K taquitos and their gut-destruction are long gone and we are hungry.
On the freeway back things are starting to get barbaric as we are plunged deeper and deeper into a hunger-fueled frenzy. Silverware banging on the dashboard as chants of food food food fill the cab of the Furd. (my turd ford) The tired engine knocks and the under inflated tires wine as I push faster towards some salivating salvation.
Wait, a sign appears up ahead, whats it say? WHATS IT SAY???? Shining like a light from heaven, a beacon to hungry fat guys everywhere, a Golden Corral appears ahead.
Screams of joy and high-fives cover the noise of screeching brakes as I direct my camper-shelled pile of crap onto the off ramp and into the parking lot. Women shriek, children flee, and the ones too slow to get out of the way fall victim to chrome-inflicted internal injuries.
Across the parking lot we fly, with rarely seen agility and speed: I clothline a woman on a cell phone, kick the walker out from under a disgruntled senior citizen, headbutt an unsuspecting truck driver out of the way, throw a handfull of bills at the women behind the cash register and dive headfirst into a hotel pan full of mac and cheese. We're here, and there is no time to fool around.
Now, I would like to take some time and set down some buffet guidelines that Aaron and I have learned over the years.
1) Understand your hydration level, and drink accordingly. If you show up to a buffet thirsty, drink water. The carbonation in soda will fill you up faster, thus hurting your buffet experience.
2) Eat slow and chew well. I know it can be overwhelming, but you must not rush
3) Unless you are a seasoned pro, one plate at a time. I know you want it all, and you want it now.... but relax. Its not going anywhere. One plate at a time will help you adhere to guideline #2.
4) Don't be afraid of that green leafy stuff. I know, I know, salad is filler-food. But, a little lettuce piled high with ham, steak, chicken, cheese, jalapenos, onions, crab salad, and croutons topped with a combination of Ranch and Blue Cheese dressing is less a salad and more a pile of delicious manly-ness.
5) Get your moneys worth, but eat what you want to. Just because you imagine the piece of steak that the semi-retarded guy who has no real idea what medium-rare is cut for you might get you the best value for your dollar, don't waste the room in your stomach if you really just want to eat a huge pile of instant mashed potatoes.
And lastly, but most importantly:
6) Know your limit. Just because the waitress put 19 plates on your table does not mean you have to use them all. And don't take any lip from the employee who says "you done already?" and points to the unused plates. They most likely hate their job, and have nothing to do but prod patrons into eating to the point that they hate life equally, if only for a few hours.
Remember, you are here to eat all you can, but also enjoy yourself as much as possible for $12.95. Don't ruin it by being a hunger-crazed idiot.
Now that I have supplied you with some of our knowledge necessary to properly destroy any unsuspecting establishment of all-you-can-eat food-stuffs, it's your turn.
So get up, get out, and roundhouse kick some roast beef, hammerfist some sliced ham, kung-fu some crab cakes, piledrive some potato salad, and make those carbohydrates, fats, proteins and water bow to their sensei.
-Alex
Now its approaching dark and the Circle-K taquitos and their gut-destruction are long gone and we are hungry.
On the freeway back things are starting to get barbaric as we are plunged deeper and deeper into a hunger-fueled frenzy. Silverware banging on the dashboard as chants of food food food fill the cab of the Furd. (my turd ford) The tired engine knocks and the under inflated tires wine as I push faster towards some salivating salvation.
Wait, a sign appears up ahead, whats it say? WHATS IT SAY???? Shining like a light from heaven, a beacon to hungry fat guys everywhere, a Golden Corral appears ahead.
Screams of joy and high-fives cover the noise of screeching brakes as I direct my camper-shelled pile of crap onto the off ramp and into the parking lot. Women shriek, children flee, and the ones too slow to get out of the way fall victim to chrome-inflicted internal injuries.
Across the parking lot we fly, with rarely seen agility and speed: I clothline a woman on a cell phone, kick the walker out from under a disgruntled senior citizen, headbutt an unsuspecting truck driver out of the way, throw a handfull of bills at the women behind the cash register and dive headfirst into a hotel pan full of mac and cheese. We're here, and there is no time to fool around.
Now, I would like to take some time and set down some buffet guidelines that Aaron and I have learned over the years.
1) Understand your hydration level, and drink accordingly. If you show up to a buffet thirsty, drink water. The carbonation in soda will fill you up faster, thus hurting your buffet experience.
2) Eat slow and chew well. I know it can be overwhelming, but you must not rush
3) Unless you are a seasoned pro, one plate at a time. I know you want it all, and you want it now.... but relax. Its not going anywhere. One plate at a time will help you adhere to guideline #2.
4) Don't be afraid of that green leafy stuff. I know, I know, salad is filler-food. But, a little lettuce piled high with ham, steak, chicken, cheese, jalapenos, onions, crab salad, and croutons topped with a combination of Ranch and Blue Cheese dressing is less a salad and more a pile of delicious manly-ness.
5) Get your moneys worth, but eat what you want to. Just because you imagine the piece of steak that the semi-retarded guy who has no real idea what medium-rare is cut for you might get you the best value for your dollar, don't waste the room in your stomach if you really just want to eat a huge pile of instant mashed potatoes.
And lastly, but most importantly:
6) Know your limit. Just because the waitress put 19 plates on your table does not mean you have to use them all. And don't take any lip from the employee who says "you done already?" and points to the unused plates. They most likely hate their job, and have nothing to do but prod patrons into eating to the point that they hate life equally, if only for a few hours.
Remember, you are here to eat all you can, but also enjoy yourself as much as possible for $12.95. Don't ruin it by being a hunger-crazed idiot.
Now that I have supplied you with some of our knowledge necessary to properly destroy any unsuspecting establishment of all-you-can-eat food-stuffs, it's your turn.
So get up, get out, and roundhouse kick some roast beef, hammerfist some sliced ham, kung-fu some crab cakes, piledrive some potato salad, and make those carbohydrates, fats, proteins and water bow to their sensei.
-Alex