Early December
It snowed last night, and our neighborhood looks like a Christmas card. The snow is absolutely beautiful on the houses and in the trees. I watched a couple of squirrels playing in the snow, and Dixie dog just loved running and playing in it. I love early snow because it means we're going to have a great winter for skiing.
Early Janurary
More snow. The snow blower won't start, but Catfish helped shovel the drive and the walks. It only took two hours to shovel out, and it was the light fluffy snow, so it wasn't too bad. Still haven't made it to the mountain to ski, maybe next week.
Early Feburary
The damn ground hog can kiss my ass. Another foot of snow fell on us. Catfish is hiding from me. He took my good snow shovel out, earned $20 shoveling someone's drive, and broke my damn shovel. I had to shovel our drive using a small shovel from the car. The damn dog is running back and fourth on the fronzen surface of the damn pool, and then tracking water into the house.
Late Feburary
More white shit is falling from the damn sky. They say we'll get a foot and a half. And, if that's not enough, it's the heavy heart attack inducing snow, and I am 100% confident that the damn snow blower won't start. No one has any snow shovels yet, so I'll be shoveling using the small shovel from the car. Catfish claims he's not strong enough to lift the heavy snow. Dixie is covered in mud from the wet sloppy snow, and has rolled on the white carpet. Chaunti and Tony Perez refuse to go outside and will either crap in the house or explode soon. Tell me again why I don't live in Destin, Florida...
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
The Night Before The Morning After
Though the cold February night air clearly said 'You are in New Jersey', inside it was nothing less than Bourbon Street at it's finest. Begining with supply runs to Restaurant Depot and the liquor stores a grueling day of cooking and drinking began to take shape. Bob Sanko and I arrived at the Sr. Citizens Center at roughly 1:00 to get the party started. As professionals, we knew how important proper preparation is to any party, so we immediatley had a cocktail, and began dealing with the trinity: Onions, Celery, and Bell Pepper. As the gumbo, jambalaya and shrimp etouffee began their journey to culinary heaven, Mr. Sanko and his trusty aide d'camp Joe Evans began preparing the drink that will forever be their trademark: The honest to God real thing....Pat O'Brian's Hurricane complete with Pat O'Brians glasses. Anyone can drink one, but if you have a second, you should probably check for new tattoos in the morning.
This was a fund raising event for the South Plainfield Soccer Club. Marshall's Dixieland Band provided the entertainment until roughtly11:00, at which time the folks who had two Hurricains took over. Roughly 60 people came, and enjoed the cajum contribution to the culinary arts. We had aboundant help in the kitchen, and wonderful participation from a lot of folks who don't even have kids playing soccer.
I don't know how much money we made, but I believe everyone had a good time. it's probably a good thing that we didn't do the henna tattoos over by the Hurricane bar because there would be a lot of people with a headache and a new tattoos this morning.
On a more serious note, I shared my bourbon with the kitchen staff, and my supply was exhaused by 8:00pm. As a result, I was sober the entire night. Of the 60 some odd people there, I was the only completely sober person there.
Yeah...I know....but, that was the night before the morning after the party.
This was a fund raising event for the South Plainfield Soccer Club. Marshall's Dixieland Band provided the entertainment until roughtly11:00, at which time the folks who had two Hurricains took over. Roughly 60 people came, and enjoed the cajum contribution to the culinary arts. We had aboundant help in the kitchen, and wonderful participation from a lot of folks who don't even have kids playing soccer.
I don't know how much money we made, but I believe everyone had a good time. it's probably a good thing that we didn't do the henna tattoos over by the Hurricane bar because there would be a lot of people with a headache and a new tattoos this morning.
On a more serious note, I shared my bourbon with the kitchen staff, and my supply was exhaused by 8:00pm. As a result, I was sober the entire night. Of the 60 some odd people there, I was the only completely sober person there.
Yeah...I know....but, that was the night before the morning after the party.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Any Given Sunday
A deep, dark and disbelieving quiet flopped down on Indianapolis like a beer soaked carpet as time ran out in Miami and a rising tide of 'Who Dat's and half 'nekid' women dancing to Dixieland jazz left the bars and clubs of New Orleans and rolled down Bourbon Street in the what was the biggest celebration since...since...well...since Saturday night. It is, after all, Mardi Gras season in New Orleans. But this party was just getting started as the New Orleans' Mardi Gras Super Bowl crowd spilled from the bars and danced in the streets to celebrate the Saint's victory.
Far to the north, in the subterrainian headquarters of the Memphis Barbeque Company, the usual suspects sat momentarily silent then suddenly loud. A miracle had been witnessed and they were at once soaking in the win,...and the loss, in the bourbon, some scotch, a little beer, and an odd assortment of wines.
Forty Six years of sucking melted away, and the unknown fans of years gone by were finally able remove the paper bags from their heads and loudly, proudly cheer the Saints. Somewhere in a skybox above the game, Archie no doubt was tormented. At once mourning the failure of Peyton and the Colts, but at the same time, secretly relishing the Saint's incredible win, Archie must have been in his own, special hell. Unable to so much as utter a single 'Who Dat!', Archie no doubt remembers the days when he when he epitomized the black and gold. It sucked to be a Saint fan back then, but that was 'back then'. This is now, and it's the Super Bowl, and it's good to be a winner.
So the game ended, and obviously, this means spring is just around the corner. I'll update everyone with information about the Brooklyn Barbque Contest on March 27th. Mark you calendars!
It's time for Barbeque!!!
Who Dat!
Far to the north, in the subterrainian headquarters of the Memphis Barbeque Company, the usual suspects sat momentarily silent then suddenly loud. A miracle had been witnessed and they were at once soaking in the win,...and the loss, in the bourbon, some scotch, a little beer, and an odd assortment of wines.
Forty Six years of sucking melted away, and the unknown fans of years gone by were finally able remove the paper bags from their heads and loudly, proudly cheer the Saints. Somewhere in a skybox above the game, Archie no doubt was tormented. At once mourning the failure of Peyton and the Colts, but at the same time, secretly relishing the Saint's incredible win, Archie must have been in his own, special hell. Unable to so much as utter a single 'Who Dat!', Archie no doubt remembers the days when he when he epitomized the black and gold. It sucked to be a Saint fan back then, but that was 'back then'. This is now, and it's the Super Bowl, and it's good to be a winner.
So the game ended, and obviously, this means spring is just around the corner. I'll update everyone with information about the Brooklyn Barbque Contest on March 27th. Mark you calendars!
It's time for Barbeque!!!
Who Dat!
Friday, January 8, 2010
It Was An Ordinary Road Trip
We set out at about 9:00AM on 12/26 for a long anticipated tript to Arkansas. Because we planned to hunt, we had guns. Because it was our Christmas visit, we had gifts. Because we would be gone a week, we had tons of luggage. Because we're stupid, we had a dog. We were packed pretty tighly in the van when we set off in the rain and wind and cold.
Things went relatively well for about an hour, when it appeared that we had encountered bad gas. No, not that gas. Gas that makes the van go. So, at Hellertown, we pulled off bought some Gas-Dry, and filled the tank with more gas. We started the van....well, we tried to start the van. Of course, the damn van wouldn't start.
Fortunately, my father-in-law lives only a couple of miles away, and there happened to be a tow truck sitting at the gas station, so we had the van towed, and switched our 'stuff' to my father-in-law's mini-van. Did I mention that we did all this in a cold, blowing rain? You're probably thinking something like "this can't get worse?"
Oh, ye of little faith. It can always get worse. think about how your hands feel when they are cold, and wet. Really, really, really cold. Now, slam the car door on one of your hands. See, it can be worse. Fortunately, no great harm came from the experience. My hand is fine.
So we traveled to Arkansas in a mini-van full of guns, luggage, dogs, gifts and us, and it really wasn't a bad trip.
So, in Arkansas we prepared for our duck hunt. Because there the water is so high, we had to go out in the swamp, in the boat and collect and reposition the decoys. So, we're in a 14 ft. john boat, in a swamp that normally is about 2 feet deep in water, but is now about 5 ft deep, and of course, we foul the prop on the motor with the rope. Did I mention that it's cold, and the wind is blowing, and that we are in a swamp that is too deep to walk out of, about a mile from the landing....and now the boat motor won't go? Fortunatly, we are able to manouver to a place where my nephew is able to stand on a floating tree, and, using my knife, clear the prop. We motored out.
The hunt the next day was equally interesting. Because there's so much water, the ducks have too many choices and stayed away from us. On the way out, we pulled up to the duck clubhouse, and were about to tie off the boat, and go in. My niece's boyfriend was struggling with tieing the boat off, so I stood up and stepped out of the boat to walk around to the front to tie it for him. The nice thing about the club house is that it is situated so that we usually can motor right up to a really shallow spot, and just step out of the boat into about 6 inches of water. The operative word is 'usually'. Not always. Not when the water is up by 4 feet. Then the water is 4 feet, six inches deep. Yeah, it's cold, too.
Finally, after spending a week in Arkansas visiting friends and family, we headed home. We covered 700 miles on the first day, and were we'll pleased with our progress. We had a great supper from Ruby Tuesday, and slept well. At about 5:30AM, I woke up and walked to the bathroom.
Apparently, at some point in the night, my darling wife morphed into Cato from the Pink Panther movies. So that our yappy little dog could not approach the door of the hotel room, she had placed the ironing board on it's side, on the ground to form a 'fence' of sorts blocking the dogs access to the door. Half asleep, and in the dark, I rediscovered the ironing board with my foot. I fell forward, catching my upper body with my hands, and rapping both shins very sharply on the narrow metel edge of the ironing board. Both shins. 220lbs of falling, middle aged, hypertensive redneck landing on his shins on a narrow metal ironing board. Let that soak in for a minute. A whole new kind of pain.
Happy New Year
Things went relatively well for about an hour, when it appeared that we had encountered bad gas. No, not that gas. Gas that makes the van go. So, at Hellertown, we pulled off bought some Gas-Dry, and filled the tank with more gas. We started the van....well, we tried to start the van. Of course, the damn van wouldn't start.
Fortunately, my father-in-law lives only a couple of miles away, and there happened to be a tow truck sitting at the gas station, so we had the van towed, and switched our 'stuff' to my father-in-law's mini-van. Did I mention that we did all this in a cold, blowing rain? You're probably thinking something like "this can't get worse?"
Oh, ye of little faith. It can always get worse. think about how your hands feel when they are cold, and wet. Really, really, really cold. Now, slam the car door on one of your hands. See, it can be worse. Fortunately, no great harm came from the experience. My hand is fine.
So we traveled to Arkansas in a mini-van full of guns, luggage, dogs, gifts and us, and it really wasn't a bad trip.
So, in Arkansas we prepared for our duck hunt. Because there the water is so high, we had to go out in the swamp, in the boat and collect and reposition the decoys. So, we're in a 14 ft. john boat, in a swamp that normally is about 2 feet deep in water, but is now about 5 ft deep, and of course, we foul the prop on the motor with the rope. Did I mention that it's cold, and the wind is blowing, and that we are in a swamp that is too deep to walk out of, about a mile from the landing....and now the boat motor won't go? Fortunatly, we are able to manouver to a place where my nephew is able to stand on a floating tree, and, using my knife, clear the prop. We motored out.
The hunt the next day was equally interesting. Because there's so much water, the ducks have too many choices and stayed away from us. On the way out, we pulled up to the duck clubhouse, and were about to tie off the boat, and go in. My niece's boyfriend was struggling with tieing the boat off, so I stood up and stepped out of the boat to walk around to the front to tie it for him. The nice thing about the club house is that it is situated so that we usually can motor right up to a really shallow spot, and just step out of the boat into about 6 inches of water. The operative word is 'usually'. Not always. Not when the water is up by 4 feet. Then the water is 4 feet, six inches deep. Yeah, it's cold, too.
Finally, after spending a week in Arkansas visiting friends and family, we headed home. We covered 700 miles on the first day, and were we'll pleased with our progress. We had a great supper from Ruby Tuesday, and slept well. At about 5:30AM, I woke up and walked to the bathroom.
Apparently, at some point in the night, my darling wife morphed into Cato from the Pink Panther movies. So that our yappy little dog could not approach the door of the hotel room, she had placed the ironing board on it's side, on the ground to form a 'fence' of sorts blocking the dogs access to the door. Half asleep, and in the dark, I rediscovered the ironing board with my foot. I fell forward, catching my upper body with my hands, and rapping both shins very sharply on the narrow metel edge of the ironing board. Both shins. 220lbs of falling, middle aged, hypertensive redneck landing on his shins on a narrow metal ironing board. Let that soak in for a minute. A whole new kind of pain.
Happy New Year
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Dining With History
Some are old men now, with gray hair. They are bent and broken, and have earing aids. They walk with a little bit of a shuffle, or perhaps a cane or a limp and some have hands that tremble bit. A gaze into their eyes sometimes betray a hint of glocomma. They are quiet, and mild, and courteous. They are gentle, and gentlemen, but once, long ago, they were fierce.
These are the men who freed Europe from the Nazis. They defeated Japan on tiny islands across the Pacific. The rescued Korea from the Communists. They fought from Saigon to Cambodia, from Grenada to Panama, from Iraq to Afganistan. They went in harm's way and lived, and have never forgotten their friends who died.
Yesterday, we fed them barbeque at the Clark American Legion.
Living in an age when football players and rock stars are mistaken for heros, it was an honor to dine with so many real ones.
These are the men who freed Europe from the Nazis. They defeated Japan on tiny islands across the Pacific. The rescued Korea from the Communists. They fought from Saigon to Cambodia, from Grenada to Panama, from Iraq to Afganistan. They went in harm's way and lived, and have never forgotten their friends who died.
Yesterday, we fed them barbeque at the Clark American Legion.
Living in an age when football players and rock stars are mistaken for heros, it was an honor to dine with so many real ones.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Endeavor to Persevere
It was a perfect September day, blue skys and cool temps. A quick dash through Restaurant Depot was just that...a dash. No delays Set up was a snap. Fire started with out a problem. Prep was quick and easy. The chicken cut without incident, and the ribs went on to thaw without problem.
A knowing mind would have sensed danger, but not me. I should have known the next two hours would be an exercise in chaos.
100 Golfers were roaring down fairways drinking heavily and looking forward to world class barbeque. The bar staff was quietly preping for what would be a giant rush. Golfers get really thirsty between the golf course and the bar. The employees at neighboring businesses smelled smoke were nosing around asking questions about the menu.
The event was KC's Korner's Annual Golf Outing. Grace, of KC's Korner fame, organized this event four years ago, and has raised over $20,000 for the Hospice.
As I said, prep went without issue, and having completed the prep and started the cooking, it was time to hit the head. To those of you who are not nautical, that means take a leak. "Go potty", so to speak.
After what could have only been a three to four minute absense, the following occured in close order....
1. A grease fire erupted in the smoker containing 120 lbs of pork shoulders, 40 lbs of
leg quarters, and 50 lbs of baby back ribs, 5 containers of barbequed beans, and 5
containers of cajun green beans. While extinguishing the fire....
2. A gust of wind blew the canopy about 10 ft. from where we had originally set it up,
nearly knocking over the table containing the rubs, vinegars, cooking tools. After
hauling the tent back into place, and fixing the table, I noticed.....
3. The wood pile was on fire. No shit.
4. All the chicken and ribs were 'sooted' beyong belief.
So, I washed 40 lbs of chicken and 50 lbs. of ribs, and cooked them anyway. And I do mean washed. Washed as in two tubs of water.
Most people with panic, others would fret. Quite a few would weap at the loss of so much chicken, ribs, and pulled pork.
Ahhh.....ye of little faith. The Good Lord gave us the hickory tree, chicken, pigs and a fine butt rub. When you combine those four, all you need is a fifth and things will be right.
So, wq que'd away secure in the knowledge that the healing aroma of hickory smoke, and the gentle embrace of the butt rub, and the periodic spritzing with vinegar would produce yet another batch of slap yo momma good barbeque.
At 9:30 last night, the verdict was in.
Damn fine food.
A knowing mind would have sensed danger, but not me. I should have known the next two hours would be an exercise in chaos.
100 Golfers were roaring down fairways drinking heavily and looking forward to world class barbeque. The bar staff was quietly preping for what would be a giant rush. Golfers get really thirsty between the golf course and the bar. The employees at neighboring businesses smelled smoke were nosing around asking questions about the menu.
The event was KC's Korner's Annual Golf Outing. Grace, of KC's Korner fame, organized this event four years ago, and has raised over $20,000 for the Hospice.
As I said, prep went without issue, and having completed the prep and started the cooking, it was time to hit the head. To those of you who are not nautical, that means take a leak. "Go potty", so to speak.
After what could have only been a three to four minute absense, the following occured in close order....
1. A grease fire erupted in the smoker containing 120 lbs of pork shoulders, 40 lbs of
leg quarters, and 50 lbs of baby back ribs, 5 containers of barbequed beans, and 5
containers of cajun green beans. While extinguishing the fire....
2. A gust of wind blew the canopy about 10 ft. from where we had originally set it up,
nearly knocking over the table containing the rubs, vinegars, cooking tools. After
hauling the tent back into place, and fixing the table, I noticed.....
3. The wood pile was on fire. No shit.
4. All the chicken and ribs were 'sooted' beyong belief.
So, I washed 40 lbs of chicken and 50 lbs. of ribs, and cooked them anyway. And I do mean washed. Washed as in two tubs of water.
Most people with panic, others would fret. Quite a few would weap at the loss of so much chicken, ribs, and pulled pork.
Ahhh.....ye of little faith. The Good Lord gave us the hickory tree, chicken, pigs and a fine butt rub. When you combine those four, all you need is a fifth and things will be right.
So, wq que'd away secure in the knowledge that the healing aroma of hickory smoke, and the gentle embrace of the butt rub, and the periodic spritzing with vinegar would produce yet another batch of slap yo momma good barbeque.
At 9:30 last night, the verdict was in.
Damn fine food.
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