what would Jesus do?

I’m just thinking out loud here, but Jesus doesn’t care about your ads. Or how you handle them in your own personal browser space.

Why does everyone think that’s a funny joke? Could you possibly be that dumb that you don’t that know every one has heard it already at least 1,000,000,000 times? Is it your perceived readership? Your perceived wittiness? What?

You know you’ve got a great batch of jalapenos when your eyes are watering, your lips are tingling, and your scalp is sweating just from the fumes of de-seeding them. My Bacon-Wrapped Jalapeno Shrimp attetizer follows. Anybody can do these. Helpful Hint: go potty BEFORE you start this. And wash your hands, pig-boy.

Yes, I’m already prepping for Thanksgiving. Next up, onions — just as soon as I quit crying.

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TFG Test Labs report that hot wings are not available through roasting and/or broiling. They fail the crispy test, and they are just too slimy after coating with the sauce. Back to the drawing board, or to the Wal-Mart for a Fry Daddy.

Basically, I’m tired of paying Hooter’s prices for Hooter’s wings, which wings I consider to be the sine qua non of hot wings at their Three Mile Island heat level, even the nekkid ones. There’s no denying the eye-candy aspect of Hooter’s, but a 20-piece TMI with bleu cheese is gustatory heaven for me. I am the guy who goes there for the food.

Better than turkey

An homage to the Good Things:

So the other night as I sat at another well-regarded restaurant, an establishment far fancier than My Favorite Restaurant, having just enjoyed a foie gras terrine, frog legs “tempura,” veal “au poivre” and a brown butter pear tart, each an imaginatively-prepared dish both pleasing to the palate and to the eye, consisting, I am sure, of only the finest and freshest ingredients, turned out with interestingly unexpected juxtapositions, imaginative touches you remember the next day, even if you’re not a foodie, I was certain, as good as this place was, it wouldn’t come close to beating, or even meeting, my esteem for My Favorite Restaurant.

And it occurred to me, as I sat there, that the difference between My Favorite Restaurant and this fancy place, and so many other fancy places associated with great food, was that My Favorite Restaurant makes the everyday extraordinary, the mundane memorable, the rarest of feats, for it requires a combination of ingredients that usually don’t mix well together: genius and humility

I’ve been trying to say this for years.

I’m stunned speechless by the simplicity and ingenuity of the Big Baby smoker.

From Functional Ambivalent…

Get busy on your own.

NB: those pork ribs were delicious. Falling off the bone tender. Here’s what I did:

- Rub applied the night before, and swaddled in plastic wrap (that stuff will make a preacher cuss).
- Smoker lit at approximately 2pm; charcoal starter, with largish hunks of pecan wood for smoke.
- Flames died down, rack of ribs go on smoker, lid down at approximately 2:30pm.
- Smoked heavily for the next 2.5-3 hours, at 200-250°.
- Wrapped ribs in foil at approximately 5:00pm. Poured half a beer into the foil wrap. NB: I also added a beer-can chicken to the smoker at this point.
- Continued cooking for 2.5-3 hours.
- Pulled ribs and chicken from grill around 7-ish.
- Let ribs sit in foil wrap for 30 minutes.
- Chop and eat some chicken.
- Chop and eat some ribs.

Now, there are several things that I think helped make this a better rack of ribs than I usually get.

1. Keeping the temps a little bit higher than I do for a thick cut of meat; seems counter-intuitive to me.
2. Lots of smoke early; I poked and prodded the coals a whole lot LESS than I usually do. It seems to have made for better smoke. These babies were pink all the way through, and you could taste it in every bite.
3. Foil wrap; since it’s a thin cut, it will lose moisture rapidly, and we need moisture for “falling off the bone tender.”
4. Beer; is there anything beer is NOT good for? I answer my own question.

I still swear that rubs are over-rated as a flavoring engine. On ribs, since they’re skinny, it’s an OK thing — you’ll get the flavor in every bite. But the muss and fuss of putting the rub on the night before and wrapping it in Saran Wrap is pointless. I think you could make a thin sauce out of the rub spices and anything liquid (beer? Of course!) and get more bang for your buck. On the bigger cuts, briskets and shoulders, why not just go ahead and inject that thin sauce and get a smoke/spice flavor mix in every dang bite? Makes sense, but I think several weekends of experimentation are in order.

Now, on the rub part, I’m perfectly happy to be corrected by you geniuses. Maybe I’m doing it wrong, or using the wrong ingredients. I’ve used professional pre-mixed stuff, and made my own from what looks good on the spice shelf. Nothing has worked. There’s just no flavor penetration down into the thick parts of the cut, and if that don’t happen, what’s the point? What I’m looking for is hint of jalapeno or cayenne all the way through, and I ain’t getting there. Thus, the injection idea.

And yes, I’m making this all up as I go along. Pure seat of the pants. We’re talking about cheap cuts of meat here. I haven’t made anything inedible yet, and there are always people around who will finish off what I don’t eat.

Plus, you know — the advancement of the Art of the Smoke. It’s my duty…

I defrosted two largish chicken breasts from the same Fresh Direct bulk frozen chicken breast bag. Bagged and frozen separately, but on the same day. Simultaneously defrosted for 1:40 in the microwave on the “defrost boneless poultry” cycle. Both brined for approximately 20 minutes in a 2:1 brine of iodized table salt and sugar. Food safe temperatures maintained throughout. Chicken pieces dredged in all-purpose flour, salt, and ground black pepper. Sauteed in a preheated pan with olive oil for >5 minutes per side (these are large pieces).

So, why did the one on the left exude >3 tablespoons of opaque whitish fluid while its partner exuded nothing? (No dirty jokes, please, this is a serious question!) I’m going to assume that the exuding one is safe to eat because I’ve cooked it to a safe temperature, according to my digital thermometer. Am I being foolhardy?

There’s a “defrost boneless poultry” cycle? “Food safe temperatures”?

I bought a rack of pork ribs at the store, and left them on the front seat of the truck for 30 minutes while I took a phone call, then I brought them in. They sat on the counter for another 2 hours, after which I rubbed them up, wrapped them up, and put them in the fridge (oh, I washed them off, too.) I’m going to smoke them tomorrow for 6-8 hours at roughly 200-220°. I won’t be checking for the volume of exudings. There’s only one rack, so you hogs stay away.

In honor of the dancing pig, I’m smoking not one, but two pork shoulders today…one for me, and one for the hands. The Yakman is smoking pork ribs down by the river, too. My BBQ man just called and he’s got a smoker full of ribs, sausage, and shoulder. Why, it’s a veritable pig-out here in the Land of Beef.

(I ripped a small bite off the nekkid one…muy delicioso.)

(Note the margarita cup in the background. heh heh Carolina ain’t got nothing like that.)

(that was at 6:20 in the PM…theoretically cooling down time, right?)

One of two things has happened here: Either

1. I took three pounds of pecan-smoked pulled pork back to Dallas last weekend, and haven’t laid eyes on it since then (nor have I eaten it)
2. My brother and the family stray came over to the deer camp cabin, raided the refrigerator, ate three pounds of pecan-smoked pulled pork, and have not returned the Tupperware yet.

It is certainly possible that an armadillo snuck in here and dragged the container to his hole and is enjoying my pecan-smoked pulled pork as I type. Or perhaps I only dreamed that I left three pounds of pecan-smoked pulled pork in the refrigerator of my eensy rock cabin. Potentially, I had an out-of-body experience and gifted my brother and the stray with three pounds of pecan-smoked pulled pork and just plumb don’t remember it.

But the bottom line is that I no longer have three pounds of pecan-smoked pulled pork in the refrigerator that resides in my deer-camp cabin, which I was counting on for having a nice Miracle Whip/Stubb’s sandwich this evening, and now I’m forced to eat moldy cheese and random Oreos. I could have stopped at the Sonic for a couple of foot-longs, had I been aware of this deficiency earlier. The bottom line, though, is the bottom line. Mold only grows on the outside of cheese, and Oreos are pretty good food. Still and all, the Tupperware will tell the tale. I can’t wait to see where it turns up. Dallas, or sneaking over here in a tub full of other dishes from the locals.

Of course, as always, I have a plan (I made it to Star Scout before being distracted by the distaff side of the house). I have another 5 lb. frozen block of pecan-smoked piggie that only needs thawing and warming before it becomes a 3 lb. Tupperware container of genuine pecan-smoked pulled pork. And all will be right again in the Land of The Fat Guy.

This is a crying damn shame. Uglesich’s is closing up in two days. It was on my calendar for at least two meals this damn month, May 16, only 10 days away. Crap. Just crap. Just dang crap all to hell and back.

Read the whole story, man. We should all be there bright and early tomorrow morning waiting in line. That’s food that we’ll never, ever see again. Durn, that makes me sad. Oh, Lord…I’m tearing up just thinking about it being closed, and I’ve only ever been once. There were things on that menu I have been planning to stuff down my gullet for over a year. And now I won’t get to. I don’t know how this would work out, but I hope Mr. Uglesich sells his recipe box to a Good Person. Maybe drop by for a consultation a couple times a week…keep his hand in, so to speak. That would work, if you’ve got the right buyer.

From Miss Janet, who will now never know what she missed. Hell, I won’t know what I missed. You know, life is just too damn short, so grab all the gusto you can when you can. It might be gone next time. Crap.

I can’t believe anyone would spend a nickel on a stainless-steel welded-down beer can that you have to wash. If you’re not of the temperament to drink beer out of a can…don’t yall have big tubs of ice with singles near the front door of your local beer emporium? Be a scientist, even…buy a couple of different beers and record your observations about which one makes the yardbird taste better. Publish them on the internets.

I also think an important element is getting lost here, like it always does when you’re dealing with people who have more money than sense. Yardbird is poor folks food…poor folks drink low-brow beer out of a can…the whole point is to get cheap laughs out of the chicken with a beer can up it’s butt, and a cheap drunk while you sit on the porch and make sure the temperature in the smoker stays right. And a good, tasty, juicy yardbird for dinner.

Not to say that you CAN’T tart it up with a bunch of pointless gear, if you’re of a mind to. The French have convinced lots of people you need a copper-bottom pan to make gravy.

I looked at this model of Tejas Smoker at the Grill Doctor this week. Yo deseo mucho, amigo.

At 74″ long, that would take up one-half of the front porch of my little rock cabin here at el rancho. I was initially looking at this one, but I’ve decided that I really, really *need* that side chamber for the super-grande all-day poker parties I plan to have when I get rich. heh heh

The High Goddess that is Cajun cooking wraps her loving arms around another victim:

I’ve got this oyster etouffe that’s the bomb. You know how macaroni and cheese casserole is kinda extra good when it’s just a little bit crunchy on the edges? The chef at Rio Mar has taken the essence of that special flavor and turned it into a majestic assault on the senses. You’ve got oysters, you’ve got chorizo(!) and you’ve got spinach and cheese burnt just perfectly in this mix. Awesome. Then I’ve got the perfect consistency of sticky saffron rice on the side of my surgical stainless bowl of bay shrimp in boulliabase. Incredible. The apple-y chardonnay works right in, and I end it all with a martini and stagger back to my hotel. Yes ladies and gentlemen this is what it is like to be a middle-aged man, when you start thinking that sex is inferior to food.

And suddenly I’m thinking of fat people in a whole new light.

I’ve decided it’s the swamp water that runs through everything down there. That, and cooks who care very, very deeply about their guests.

One month and one week till I’m back for five days of the greatest eating on God’s good, green earth (and it has poker, too.) Bourbon St.? That’s for the kiddies. I’m sure I’ll go with the customer-partner beasts and knock down a Lucky Dog or five, but my One True Quest will be for an experience similar to that described by Mr. Bowen above.

This is almost enough to make me move to Miami — Christmas Eve in shorts and t-shirts, roasting up a ginormous pig. Then eating it right off the pig himself. Makes me want a caja china for myself, but there’s not a soul that I know in 50 miles who would eat it. I need more barbaric friends, and a less finicky family.

I went round and round over the last two weeks trying to figure out what to serve for Christmas dinner. Thanksgiving was completely traditional this year, and it was also ginormous. Tons of turkey, mashed potatoes, dressing, green bean casserole (with real Durkee™ onion rings!), rolls, giblet gravy, bacon-wrapped fresh green beans, salad, bread-machine bread — whew. There was no way I could face that again. I think there is still a dirty hand-mixer resting in the utility room sink.

Alternatives came and went. I pondered a prime rib, roasted in the overn. Or prime rib, using the David Wade rock-salt method. Either way, the prime rib was going to come out rare; pink and bloody. I had a vision of upchucking children and promptly nixed that. I also considered a Dallas Cajun meal: chicken & sausage gumbo, crawdad ettouffe, cajun fries with brown gravy and cheese, a bushel of long-grain rice. I had a vision of upchucking brothers; guys who intensely distrust any vegetable outside the potatoe or the sweet corn kernel. I would never be able to sneak okra (an essential part of gumbo) past them.

So I threw up my hands in total frustration, and we’re having Tex-Mex. My daughter married an Iowan whose mouth gets scorched from French’s yellow mustard, so that means I have to turn the heat WAY down on everything. I am, however, fixing two pots of chili. One mild, and one that I hope will be blazing, scalp-sweat hot. Since I don’t have a personal chili recipe (yet), I like picking through recipes to find new ones to try. The one I chose is under the MORE button, if you’re interested. For the mild, I’m just using Carroll Shelby’s Chili-in-a-Bag. I hold no shame in that, by the way. Carroll is a fine Texan, has been involved in chili from the get-go, and he invented the baddest-ass car ever built in America, the 427 Cobra. I’ll have mine in red, please…

Besides the chili, we’re having:
- Sausage chili con queso
- 4 dozen pork tamales
- 4 dozen chicken tamales
- King Ranch Casserole
- Rice & refrieds
- Tacos / burritos: U-Mak-Em style (and I looked all over for those mini-taco shells for the kids, but couldn’t find ‘em)
- Iced tea for the tee-totalers, and beer, wine, champagne, or Bloody Marys for the rummies.
- Whatever 5,000 desserts my mom brings over (she has committed to making an apple/cranberry pie for me, her favorite son. Don’t fret: I have an ambulance on call for when I go into a diabetic coma)

More heresy: we’re going to be eating off of paper plates and bowls. I flat refuse to spend two days washing pots, pans and dishes again. Once a year is OK — twice in 30 days is out of the question.
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