At last reports, the eastern seaboard is being threatend by a hurricane. The Weather Channel is breathlessly hyping the storm. Their ratings in NYC are going to be great. The major networks, thankful for something other than the economy to talk about, are exersizing extreme gravitas when speculating about the possible impacts of the storm on New York City. Grim faced broadcast professionals are advising us to 'get hurricane ready'.
This is gonna be tough, as I have barbeque responsibilites I have to meet, but I'll give it my best shot.
It looks like it will be a two day event, so I'm thinking a 1/2 gallon of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum, and a 1/2 gallon of Malibu Caribbean Rum wiht Coconut Liqueur. I have a gallon of Nature's Select orange juice with Calcium and 3 cans of frozen orange juice. I have a 1/2 gallon of cranberry juice.
On the bloodmary front, I have 3 containers of Tabasco bloodymary mix, a fresh bottle of Tabasco, a fresh bottle of Worchestershire Sauce, 3 limes and a half gallon of vodka.
We have 2 boxes of wine, and a gallon of bourbon.
I have 6 lbs of frozen shrimp, and a new can of Old Bay Seasoning. There are 4 ribeyes and 4 filets in the freezer. I have some ribs I brought home from my bbq gig at the bar. I'm going to buy a couple of bags of ice, just in case we over run the ice maker.
I am as ready as it is possible to be....well...maybe I should get some batteries for the flash light, if I get a chance.
As I survey my preparations, I am reminded of a cheer I last heard at my sister's 1973 High School Graduation in the wreckage of Jonesboro High following the tornado that year....
Open the roof and let it rain, Give'em Hell, Hurricane!
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Plaid Clad Strangers Invade Jersey Town
All manner of wilted, worn out, sold out hippies and roving yuppies have arrived in our fair town. Freely roaming the streets in BMWs, a number of them sporting plaid shorts and polo shirts descended on KC's Korner last night.
Each approached me and the smoker with great caution. It was as if they were approaching an alien spacecraft. Warily they eyed me, which was odd because I wore shorts yesterday, not a kilt. I have become aware that kilts sometimes freak people out. Women are particularly intreigued by a kilt, and they pose quite a threat to the unguarded. Eventually, our plaid clad friends ordered ribs, or chicken, and cautiously retreated to the Patio Bar area.
Ten minutes later, after they had devoured the chicken and ribs, I discovered these guys weren't worn out hippies and yuppies, these guys were my new best friends! We began chatting about all manner of things and having just a hell of a time. One guy was from Philly, was a auditor with a giant consulting firm, and he'd never had dry rubbed ribs before. A lady, who's father was some sort of judge, ordered 1/2 a chicken, and devoured the entire thing. She wanted to know if I would be there again today. Several bought ribs to take home with them.
So today, we're told to expect 50,000 people in our little town. It's going to get 'interesting' today. Our friends from yesterday said they'll be back, and that they'll bring there friends. I can just see the teaser on the news...."Plaid Clad Strangers Take Over Jersey Bar...Film at 11:00
Each approached me and the smoker with great caution. It was as if they were approaching an alien spacecraft. Warily they eyed me, which was odd because I wore shorts yesterday, not a kilt. I have become aware that kilts sometimes freak people out. Women are particularly intreigued by a kilt, and they pose quite a threat to the unguarded. Eventually, our plaid clad friends ordered ribs, or chicken, and cautiously retreated to the Patio Bar area.
Ten minutes later, after they had devoured the chicken and ribs, I discovered these guys weren't worn out hippies and yuppies, these guys were my new best friends! We began chatting about all manner of things and having just a hell of a time. One guy was from Philly, was a auditor with a giant consulting firm, and he'd never had dry rubbed ribs before. A lady, who's father was some sort of judge, ordered 1/2 a chicken, and devoured the entire thing. She wanted to know if I would be there again today. Several bought ribs to take home with them.
So today, we're told to expect 50,000 people in our little town. It's going to get 'interesting' today. Our friends from yesterday said they'll be back, and that they'll bring there friends. I can just see the teaser on the news...."Plaid Clad Strangers Take Over Jersey Bar...Film at 11:00
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Ribs and Yard Birds
The sun finally clawed it's way over the horizon just an hour ago, and my bloodymary sits sweating and waiting. From my kitchen window, I see a great expanse of green grass, and uncounted huge corporate 'hospitality' tents. The Woodstock generation is all grown up, has adopted golf as it's new religion, and will be descending on us tomorrow for the Barclay's Golf Tournement. Fifty thousand strong they will come in Saabs, 
Mercedes, and Volvos. They are going to clog our streets, and annoy the hell out of everyone....except me.
One of the great things about having a smoker is that occasionally a friend who owns a bar will ask you to come over, hang out and cook ribs....all week long. This just amazes me. I get to hang out at a bar all week long and cook ribs. He's hopeful that some of our locals will find their way to KC's Korner for a cold one and some ribs. I'm thinking this is a hell of a good idea.
KC's is a great little bar. Twenty years ago, it was a biker bar. It's no longer a biker bar, and today, it has the best food in town. It's clientele is an ecletic mix of locals, and imports (me). It's like 'Cheers', but without Kirsty Alley. I'm setting the smoker up by the new 'patio', and will be doing ribs everyday. I'm going to do them as if we were in a competition, which means I'll be mostly sober for most of the week.
So, beginning this afternoon and going for 7 days, there are king hell, championship quality, Memphis style, dry rubbed baby back ribs at KC's.
Mercedes, and Volvos. They are going to clog our streets, and annoy the hell out of everyone....except me.
One of the great things about having a smoker is that occasionally a friend who owns a bar will ask you to come over, hang out and cook ribs....all week long. This just amazes me. I get to hang out at a bar all week long and cook ribs. He's hopeful that some of our locals will find their way to KC's Korner for a cold one and some ribs. I'm thinking this is a hell of a good idea.
KC's is a great little bar. Twenty years ago, it was a biker bar. It's no longer a biker bar, and today, it has the best food in town. It's clientele is an ecletic mix of locals, and imports (me). It's like 'Cheers', but without Kirsty Alley. I'm setting the smoker up by the new 'patio', and will be doing ribs everyday. I'm going to do them as if we were in a competition, which means I'll be mostly sober for most of the week.
So, beginning this afternoon and going for 7 days, there are king hell, championship quality, Memphis style, dry rubbed baby back ribs at KC's.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Baseball
A few years ago, for some reason, Catfish decided he wanted to play Little League Baseball. He's always been a 'soccer kid', and had never really got into baseball. We go to see the Yankee's about two or three times a year, but throwing the baseball in the front yard just doesn't happen. I never played baseball, so I didn't really didn't encourage him to play. When he asked to join a Little League team, I thought "What the hell....this will be fun."
That was a understatement.
Our team was a collection of about 12 or 14 10 year old boys of various sizes, skill levels, and attention spans. We had one kid, a tall lanky pitcher, who threw smoke. He was probably the best pitcher in the league. No one got hits off this kid. We had another kid, a much shorter hyper-competitive pitcher, who threw almost as well, but would let the other team get into his head. One kid, a big bear of a kid, showed up for practice about a 2 weeks after we had begun training the team. He was a big kid, and talkative. Our head coach sent him to me. I was working with kids in right field, and the coach was hitting balls to us. We had a kid serving as a runner so that when the coach hit the ball, we had someone to 'throw out'. The big kids was explaining to me that he knew all about baseball.
Coach hit the ball, a slow grounder, to the big kid. He trotter up to field the ball. The kid running the bases saw the big kid trotting to the ball, and kicked it into high gear. The kid was trying to get to second base. He was really moving as he sprinted past first and toward second. It looked like it was going to be close. By this time, the big kid had the ball, and with a long and very athletic stride, he threw a rocket and nailed the runner in the back with the baseball about 4 strides short of second base. The runner was down.
It seems that the big kid actually knew a lot about kick ball, and very little about baseball.
Catfish, on the other hand, understood baseball. It only took getting hit once or twice by a pitch for him to figure out that if he stepped backwards out of the batter's box, he would avoid getting hit. Unfortunately, when you are stepping backwards out of the batters box, you don't hit the ball very often.
One Saturday, we were playing a pretty good team. Their pitcher threw hard and well. We just weren't getting hits. It was a zero/zero game into the 4th innning. Catfish had come up to bat a couple of time, and on each occasion, with each pitch, he stepped back and out of the box.
Finally, it was Catfish's turn to bat again. Before he went up to bat, I told him, "Don't back out of the box.". He looked at me like I had two heads, and said "He's going to hit me with the ball.". No, I assured him, he's not. He hasn't hit anyone in the whole game. My words fell on deaf ears.
Catfish walked to the batters box, and got set. The kid readied to pitch. With a swerl of arms and legs that only a 12 year old boy can accomplish, a pitch came rocketing right down the middle of the plate, and Catfish stepped back.
Again, I called to him. "Don't step back!". He glared back at me, and got ready for the next pitch. Again, another strike emerged from the swerl of arms and legs, and again, Catfish stepped back. He looked over at me with that 'I know I'm in trouble look'. I again told him to not step back.
He stepped back into the batters box, and readied for the pitch. The pitcher readied, and the tornado of arms and legs began again. Once more the ball came smoking out of the tangle, and sped toward home. This time, Catfish stood as still as a statue. He didn't step back. He didn't flinch.
The ball nailed him right in the kidney. It was a smoking fastball, and it got him solid. It didn't richochet off and go to the back stop. It hit him solid on the kidney and dropped at his feet.
He was kind of hunched over as he trotted to first base. As one of the Coaches, I was allowed to go check on him. As I trotted across the field, he glared at me. I could almost see smoke coming from his ears. He wasn't rubbing his back, but I knew it had to really hurt. I slowed from my trot to a walk just a few steps short of first.
Before I could ask how he was, with a steely gaze fixed on my eyes, he said "I told you he was going to hit me with the damn ball."
Catfish prefers soccer.
That was a understatement.
Our team was a collection of about 12 or 14 10 year old boys of various sizes, skill levels, and attention spans. We had one kid, a tall lanky pitcher, who threw smoke. He was probably the best pitcher in the league. No one got hits off this kid. We had another kid, a much shorter hyper-competitive pitcher, who threw almost as well, but would let the other team get into his head. One kid, a big bear of a kid, showed up for practice about a 2 weeks after we had begun training the team. He was a big kid, and talkative. Our head coach sent him to me. I was working with kids in right field, and the coach was hitting balls to us. We had a kid serving as a runner so that when the coach hit the ball, we had someone to 'throw out'. The big kids was explaining to me that he knew all about baseball.
Coach hit the ball, a slow grounder, to the big kid. He trotter up to field the ball. The kid running the bases saw the big kid trotting to the ball, and kicked it into high gear. The kid was trying to get to second base. He was really moving as he sprinted past first and toward second. It looked like it was going to be close. By this time, the big kid had the ball, and with a long and very athletic stride, he threw a rocket and nailed the runner in the back with the baseball about 4 strides short of second base. The runner was down.
It seems that the big kid actually knew a lot about kick ball, and very little about baseball.
Catfish, on the other hand, understood baseball. It only took getting hit once or twice by a pitch for him to figure out that if he stepped backwards out of the batter's box, he would avoid getting hit. Unfortunately, when you are stepping backwards out of the batters box, you don't hit the ball very often.
One Saturday, we were playing a pretty good team. Their pitcher threw hard and well. We just weren't getting hits. It was a zero/zero game into the 4th innning. Catfish had come up to bat a couple of time, and on each occasion, with each pitch, he stepped back and out of the box.
Finally, it was Catfish's turn to bat again. Before he went up to bat, I told him, "Don't back out of the box.". He looked at me like I had two heads, and said "He's going to hit me with the ball.". No, I assured him, he's not. He hasn't hit anyone in the whole game. My words fell on deaf ears.
Catfish walked to the batters box, and got set. The kid readied to pitch. With a swerl of arms and legs that only a 12 year old boy can accomplish, a pitch came rocketing right down the middle of the plate, and Catfish stepped back.
Again, I called to him. "Don't step back!". He glared back at me, and got ready for the next pitch. Again, another strike emerged from the swerl of arms and legs, and again, Catfish stepped back. He looked over at me with that 'I know I'm in trouble look'. I again told him to not step back.
He stepped back into the batters box, and readied for the pitch. The pitcher readied, and the tornado of arms and legs began again. Once more the ball came smoking out of the tangle, and sped toward home. This time, Catfish stood as still as a statue. He didn't step back. He didn't flinch.
The ball nailed him right in the kidney. It was a smoking fastball, and it got him solid. It didn't richochet off and go to the back stop. It hit him solid on the kidney and dropped at his feet.
He was kind of hunched over as he trotted to first base. As one of the Coaches, I was allowed to go check on him. As I trotted across the field, he glared at me. I could almost see smoke coming from his ears. He wasn't rubbing his back, but I knew it had to really hurt. I slowed from my trot to a walk just a few steps short of first.
Before I could ask how he was, with a steely gaze fixed on my eyes, he said "I told you he was going to hit me with the damn ball."
Catfish prefers soccer.
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