The Meat Cake Adventure

Originally posted: Saturday, April 24, 2010 at 7:22pm

So I made this meat cake/log/brick for our church's ManFood competition. I laughed several times while making it, just because...well, I hope you can laugh at it, too.

Here we go:

Step (1) Weave 1 lb of bacon together.

Technically still good like this.

Step (2) Cover bacon mat with 1 lb ground beef. Sprinkle with a little cooked bacon.


Step (3) Press a mix of whole and sliced Little Smokies into the beef.

Smokies: the only other meat that could've improved this thing.

Step (4) Cover with cheese.


Step (5) Add MORE BACON!?!


Step (6) It needs BBQ sauce. And BBQ seasoning.

Slather away.

Step (7) Roll that sucker up and cook it good! Do not eat until fully cooked, however tempting.

Admire the weave.

 

Cheese Balls: The Snack (not a medical condition)

Originally posted: Tuesday, November 3, 2009 at 10:35am

Alternate title: My selfish alter-ego

For Halloween my mom gave Husband and I a ONE POUND drum of cheese balls/puffs (meant to resemble pumpkins or something). One pound doesn't sound like much, but think of how light those things are. It's like the size of a sparkletts jug.

We have so many we've been using them to barter with. Ex: We gave a friend a baggy of cheese puffs to borrow two of her movies. Cheese balls could be the currency of the future, should the economy continue in a downslide...

And people get really excited about cheese puffs. Like everybody wants one or two as soon as they see that you've got some. But you look like a selfish jerk if you only give someone one or two cheese balls even if they only ask for one or two (I mean, who can't spare a handful of a cheap snack?), but I'm REALLY covetous of certain food. Luckily, cheese balls are the kind of thing that I realize I will get sick of pretty quickly. As soon as all that processed cheese dust and the deep-fried dough puffs start to build a layer of glutinous, sodium-filled jelly in my stomach... I'm done and ready to share. But sometimes I don't want to share food.

Like, usually, I love to feed people. I will give you tons of home-cooked food. I'll make several dishes and want you to stuff yourself on them, but if I go to the store and find some snack food that I REALLY want, and then I get it... I'm like freaking Golum hiding in some cave with the "One Snack." I think everybody else wants it, too, so I eat it secretly where no one will see and ask for some.

I try and keep this covetousness a secret. Husband only recently found this out with grape juice. It's a guilty pleasure, since it's kinda expensive as far as juice goes. I have to limit how much I drink or I will make myself disgustingly ill on it. And like I said, I get kinda manic about it, like, even *how* I drink it. Grape juice must be sipped. Must. Otherwise you miss the full spectrum of delicious flavor. Well, a few weeks back, we got two 64oz containers of grape juice from Costco. I thought I was going to cry I was so happy about all that juice. I quickly imagined how, if I paced myself, I could make it last a long time.

When we got it home, I immediately poured myself a glass; so did Husband. I hadn't calculated his consumption into my grape juice forecast. I tried to let it go, thinking of how silly it was wanting to have all the grape juice for myself. I sipped my cup of juice: it was fantastic; incredibly flavorful; like an old friend it was familiar and yet I hadn't had any in a while, so the taste was refreshing. Slowly sipping and savoring, I was entering a sort of meditation with my grape juice. Then I heard a horrifying noise: *glumph**glorb**glumph*

"NO!" I cried out unexpectedly. Husband was GULPING down his glass of grape juice. That oaf was reverse-vomiting the precious nectar of my delight. I snatched his glass from him before he could finish off what little juice remained in it. I was another person, it seemed.

"What are you DOING?!" my mouth surprised me by talking, "You can't CHUG the grape juice!"

I must have really shocked Husband because he just stood there with his eyes popped open about as big as I've seen them. He was biting his lips together and his hand was still curled around some phantom cup in midair-- everything had happened so fast, and surely he hadn't expected to be attacked just then.

I explained how it needed to be sipped, savored, about the spectrum of delicious flavor, the nirvana... I started to hear how ridiculous I was. And Husband was still standing there looking really sheepish before he burst out laughing and promised that he would "sip from now on." While he conceded that it was unquestionably better when sipped, I felt bad enough about letting my Golum alter-ego surface that I told him he could chug it if he wanted to and I wouldn't attack him again... He still seems too afraid to do that, though, because whenever he drinks the grape juice now, he always casts furtive glances my way as he sips. Secretly, I am pleased.

Now you know more about my selfish alter-ego.

I Am the Pregnant Rhino

 

    I don't remember being so edgy during my first pregnancy. I remember slogging through morning sickness, getting overly-emotional about random things (I cried more than once because the grocery store had "too many kinds of ice cream" and I couldn't choose), and going through what seemed like normal pregnancy mood swings where I could take a nap and feel better.

     This go-round, my hormones have thrown me for a real loop. I think my moods are pretty normal-- or at least they would be normal if I were a pregnant rhinoceros. It's not just that I'm easily displeased, but that I feel the need to exact senseless revenge on the thing that has displeased me.

Ridiculous Example:

     On Wednesday, I scoured Yelp for "the food" that I needed that day. It ended up being carne asada fries: french fries adorned with melted cheese and guacamole, drizzled with crema fresca, and endowed with heaps of juicy carne asada. The pictures posted by customers set expectations high. When I got mine, something was... off. The cheese was all on one side, making all those fries stick together. I pulled on a loose end and the fry broke; I pulled on another fry and it, too, broke off leaving the majority of its goodness trapped in an impregnable blob of cheese. I felt the rage well up, so I decided to turn my attention to other merits of the fries: the meat. I scooped some up with a fork and dipped it in the crema fresca. Horror of horrors, it was crumbly and dry. "Bubble-bubble-bubble," simmered my hormone-infested blood.

     Most people would be like, "Man, that's disappointing," and move on with their lives. I turned into the incredible Hulk: "Aaaargh! These fries are WRONG! You stupid, stupid fries!!!"

     And then I sat there, hating them. The fries remained unimpressed with my rage (obviously to be expected... for a normal person) and that made me even angrier. There they sat, mocking my palate's hopes and dreams. Still cheese-blobby and covered in dry meat.

     This is where the rhino bit comes into play. Because as a quasi-petite human, it's just so frustrating not being able to do something dramatic and impressive to give body to such frustrations. See, in my mind's eye, I imagined how satsifying it would be to be a rhinoceros, get upset, and trample whatever it is that ticks you off. I would have given anything to be able to trample those contemptible fries right then. Just kick up some dust, demolish them with 3,000 lbs of preggo fury, and snort with disdain at the memory of their mediocrity.

     Wouldn't that be great?

     And pregnant rhinos (as opposed to pregnant humans who yell at their food) can pretty much get away with anything without sideways glances from others. Something makes her mad, she tramples it, and everyone's like, "Well, whattya expect? You shouldn't tick off a pregnant rhino."

The real--and only--moral of this story is that you need to pray for my dear, dear husband...

...Because, while I have yet to trample anyone/anything around here, I suspect that some days it would be nice for him if he could keep me in a walled enclosure, or at the very least holster some tranquilizer darts in the event that one day my fries have too much cheese on one side, or my pants are too tight, or my socks are uncomfy, etc.