Cow Patties for Dinner? It’s Not As Bad As It Sounds

I eat cow patties. I eat them as often as I can and I am not ashamed of it.

After reading the previous statement, I find it highly likely that you think me bereft of any sort of sense. In fact, the opposite is true. My mind is quite sound.

To explain my position simply I’ll say that the term “hamburger” in no way describes the food that we accept that it does. If you were to bring a pre-hamburger individual into present times and offer him a “hamburger” sight unseen and without any explanation as to the makeup of the offer, he or she would likely think one of two things.


 A: You were offering to introduce him or her to a resident of a burg called Ham


B: You were offering him or her some sort of ham based dish, perhaps one in which bits of a resident of a burg had been mixed into.

Paradoxically, both of these ideas are true and false. “Hamburger” does not mean a round chunk of ground chuck. “Hamburger” means the things I previously described. A more accurate name for a round chunk of ground chuck is cow patty. A shaped chunk of ground material is called a (whatever material was used) patty. Therefore a patty made of cow is a cow patty.

I eat cow patties.

I am not ashamed of it.

I will continue to do it.

I am not insane.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…feel free to join this etymologically correct movement if you wish.

A don’t…ask for a cow patty should you attend a barbeque thrown by a rancher or farm hand. You’ll certainly be disappointed, disgusted and laughed back into the city.



Defining Grilled Cheese: Some Tasty Food for Thought

Let’s journey together through the culture surrounding some popular foods, pizza, chicken fried steak and grilled cheese.

I recently came to the conclusion that a grilled cheese sandwich is a sandwich, containing nothing but cheese, that has been grilled. If you add anything to it, it becomes  a grilled (whatever you put in it) sandwich. After all, many hot sandwiches contain cheese, are grilled or otherwise heated, and are not called “grilled cheese”. Consider the Philly Cheesesteak. The meat, toppings and cheese are grilled and generally served in a toasted bun. Not a grilled cheese.

Pizza supports this claim. Unless you are the sort of person who cannot or will not eat cheese, your pizza will have cheese. If the pizza only has cheese, it is a cheese pizza. If it has anything else on it at all, pepperoni, ham, onions, olives, what have you, it is no longer called a cheese pizza. It is called a (whatever you put on it) pizza.

I understand that what is true for one type of food may not be true for another. I heard it posited this evening that what makes a sandwich a grilled cheese is the way it is cooked (to a toasty, crunchy, golden brown) and the pull of the cheese as you bite into it.

I see what they did there and I don’t buy it.

I attack this claim with chicken fried steak.

Chicken fried steak is usually beef that has been fried in the same manner as chicken traditionally is. It is still steak. Frying it like chicken does not cause people to call it chicken simply because it is cooked like chicken. The same should apply to so-called grilled cheese sandwiches. You are basically breading and cooking whatever filling you’ve chosen as if it were a grilled cheese sandwich. Therefore a pulled pork “grilled cheese” sandwich, for example, should be called a grilled cheese cooked pulled pork. Granted, this is an awkward order to place, but we should follow the logic used with other foods.

You may ask why I would even consider this a problem. To support my indignation, I submit the devolution of the English language. If everyone were able to use words willy-nilly and we didn’t have the good old Oxford’s English Dictionary and multiple learned scholars preserving “Proper English” we would soon become unable to understand people from outside our own social circles.

In other words, it is ok to fry steak as if it were chicken and grill pork as if it were cheese, but if there are no watch-dogs we would soon be unable to order in unfamiliar restaurants due to the inaccurate naming and/or descriptions of foodstuffs.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…call food whatever you want. But follow the logic to prevent food related foul-ups.

A don’t…pay too much attention to this post. It’s just food for thought.

An Offensive Gift, A False Scripture and a Moose; A Christmas at Work Worth Forgetting

Merry Christmas.

With holiday sentiments safely out of the way, let me tell you about a Christmas present I got at work. Rather, let me be vague about it and assure you that it was offensive. It was good naturedly offensive and I took no real offense at it. But I wanted to convey that I had been off put. Since I’m not saying much about the gift itself, I’ll go on at length about my response to the gift.

My response involved the fabrication of scripture. I understand that some may find this blasphemous (although I mean no disrespect to true scripture), and some may be offended merely by the mention of scriptures, religion or Jesus. If you are offended by such things, consider yourself forewarned that you may disregard this post as you see fit and hold me blameless.

Having performed my due diligence, and assuming you are still reading, I present below the full text of my response to the offensive gift:

Dear Sekrit Santuh (this is how the attached card was signed),

Thank you so much for the gift! I found it to be rather offensive. As I assume this was your intent, I applaud you on a job well done.

It wasn’t offensive in the way you might imagine, however. You see, I do not believe in Santuh. Neither do I celebrate the holiday he is associated with. I celebrate the holiday that inspired Christmas, which was originally called the Festival of Christ’s Moose.

This special day was set aside to commemorate the year that Jesus, upon his birthday, took leave of the Holy Lands and rode a moose to Anchorage. As he rode, a multitude of Inuits and Eskimos began following him saying, “Savior, teach us and lead us to salvation.” And Jesus, having pity on them, dismounted his moose and began to preach to them saying, “Blessed are the cold in heart, for they shall find warmth.”  And as he was preaching, the multitude began to grumble against him saying, “We hunger.”

And as they were grumbling, a thunderous noise was heard in the East and from behind a sparse copse of evergreen trees emerged a large, white man-like creature that walkethed upon two legs. And as the multitude hungered and cowered, the creature roared and it did beat upon its chest and did fall upon them with violent intent. And as the creature came forth to devour them, the multitude cried out to Jesus saying, “Savior, save us!”

And Jesus, having pity on them, stopped preaching and he said to his moose, “Go!” And his moose went and it plunged its antlers into the creature and killed it. And Jesus, remembering their grumbling, blessed the creature and tore it asunder and filled many baskets with the pieces and fed the multitude. And they who were once cold were filled with a warmth and it was not a physical warmth, yea, it was a warmth of the heart.

This is why most Christmas celebrations include Christmas Dinner, however, it should rightly be called Christ’s Moose’s Dinner and the main course should include Yeti steaks. Since these are very hard to come by, modern day celebrants have seen fit to do away with the truths behind the holiday and celebrate Jesus’ birth by eating turkey, a known non-cryptid.

Thanks again and may you all have a hairy Christ’s Moose.

Signature omitted

And thusly were those who offensively gifted me regaled. Much to my wife’s dismay, I also attempted to regale the children with a similar tale. They disregarded it out of hand. Smart kids.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…know that I understand the severity of creating one’s own scripture. It was a joke meant to shame my co-workers. I’ll not attempt to build a church around it or encourage others to adhere to my false tenets.

A don’t…read any truth into what I’ve concocted. The most that you can take away from it is that moose exist and it is cold in Anchorage. I’ve seen no real evidence to suggest Jesus ever even saw a moose in his Earthly incarnation.

Fromage du Boo Hoo Wah Wah; A Fringe Food I Hope Will Never Catch On

I’ve done a lot of Christmas themed writing lately. In addition to the holiday posts I’ve published here, I’ve also written my yearly Christmas poem for work. I’m getting Christmased out and I haven’t thrown a yule log on the fire or roasted chestnuts or opened a present yet. It’s too soon to be fed up with the fa la la la la, so forthwith I present an exploration of a possible culinary nightmare.

Many years ago I watched some dude on some show do some thing amazing yet disturbing and mildly horrible.

He squirted milk from his tear ducts.

Maybe you’ve seen something similar. If you have, please accept my condolences. Also please remember how he got the milk into his tear ducts to begin with. I’m drawing a complete blank when it comes to that detail.

Anyway, it doesn’t really matter how he got it in there. What does matter is what would happen if he didn’t sufficiently clean his ducts?

Infection, of course, seems highly likely. In fact, it could go without even being said. But it didn’t, so there it is.

Another perhaps unforeseen side effect of failing to sanitize after such an act is the possible production of some sort of cheese within the duct. This seems extremely likely. After all, sanitization of such a duct as that which produces human tears is quite a challenge. You can’t exactly squirt bleach through there and come out of the ordeal OK. I’m sure the guy used some sort of saline solution afterward. Still, milk is renowned for its coating properties. Is saline enough to break down whatever it is that binds milk to such things as stomachs and, undoubtedly, tear ducts?


If he did use a saline solution afterward all he likely did was to over salt the remaining milk (soon to be cheese) particles. They’re being produced within a salt water pipeline, after all.

Now, let’s say that all this is plausible. Let’s also ignore the fact that tear ducts lack the enzyme rennet, an essential part of cheese making. Considering that we’re ignoring this fact, let’s just assume that it is cottage cheese that is being made. Upon sewing up that plot hole, let’s move on to other matters.

Discomfort. Obviously.

Extraction. Complicated and likely to require surgery. It is the curds that present the problem here. Whey should flow readily assuming that no curds completely clog the emotion expressway.

This all sounds quite disgusting, and it is, but think of the implications. Such a cheese would be quite an exclusive dish. The production and extraction hazards, combined with limited supply and the uniqueness of the dish, practically guarantees it gaining delicacy status.

It would go over quite well in the horrible restaurant I want to open. I’ll call it Fromage du Boo Hoo Wah Wah. It’ll pair quite nicely with wine made from fermented shrimp paste. It would be a great appetizer before the first course, Eggs Benedict Arnold. These are like Eggs Benedict only using eggs that have turned. Top this all off with a dessert of Rhesus Pieces, which are chunks of Rhesus monkey covered in chocolate, and you’ve got a meal fit for a rather demented and bizarre King.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…experiment with food. If people will pay good money for coffee beans a marmoset pooped out, they’ll pay for cheese produced in a human tear duct as well. Take advantage of the strange way in which horrendous things become trendy.

A don’t…try to produce tear duct cheese at home. You’ll likely go quite blind and I really can’t afford to be sued over some ridiculous joke I told at length on the internet.

Rude Dolph the Red-Nosed Drunken Mall Santa; A Holiday Classic Realistically Reimagined

Rude Dolph the red nosed drunken mall Santa;

Had some very noxious breath.

Most kids who sat on his lap;

Begged him (please) for their own death.

All of the other mall Santas;

Thought that he had sullied their names,

So every time they saw him;

They brushed their fingers at him in shame.

Then one busy Christmas Eve;

The mall manager came to say,

“Rude Dolph with your breath so rank;

Won’t you eat these mints I got at the bank?”

Then how the children flocked to him;

And they shouted out with glee (yippee),

“Rude Dolph the red nosed drunken mall Santa;

Now you only smell like pee!”

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…accept my apologies.

A don’t…forget to brush your teeth, especially if your mouth is going to be close to people and you’re required to speak to them.

Some Restaurant Whose Name I Dare Not Remember; A Disaster in Mexican-American Fusion


I wish to regale you with a tale. It isn’t a tale of hope. It isn’t even a pleasurable tale. It is instead a tale of a horrible mistake. A mistake made by a young man and his father. It may be pleasurable to you. Being detached from the actual experience, you may find it quite humorous. Read on that you may be enlightened as to your reaction.

Before I begin, I firstly disclaim that, although I tell a tale of woe, I do not seek to discredit anyone whatsoever. It is perhaps a benefit that I do not remember the name of the terrible Mexican restaurant my father and I visited. Nor do I remember the town that it was in, although the state was Oklahoma. Go figure. Ridiculous Turnpike tolls and horrible Mexican restaurants. The only good thing to come out of Oklahoma for me is my beautiful and amazing wife. Well, her and that one Toby Keith song.

My father and I once traveled to a town fairly foreign to us to tow home one of our family’s cars that had broken down on the cursed Turnpike. After hooking up the car to my pickup truck, we decided that we were hungry. We pulled, connected and carefully, into a small town gas station and inquired as to the availability of “good food” in the area. The attendant for some reason suggested the Mexican place. Perhaps it was the only restaurant in the tiny town. If so, I’m sure the inhabitants rue their future for it is one bereft of culinary class and diversity.

We traversed the tiny roads, happy for the low population and empty streets, until the route we had been given terminated in the Mexican “restaurant” whose praises had been sung (sang? No, it’s sung.) at the gas station. In retrospect we should’ve considered the source. I’m not saying that gas station attendants have no taste. All I’m saying is that the edibles offered by gas station attendants generally inspire diarrhea.

We entered the place and were shown to a table by some people who were by no means Mexican. This should have been our first clue. My father and I are, however, quite dumb. We sat down and perused the menu. After ordering drinks my father proclaimed a need to evacuate either his liquid or solid waste repositories. I can’t remember which, and it probably is irrelevant and disgusting to try and remember anyway. He requested that, should the waitress approach before his return, I order him the buffet.

As it turned out, I placed our order, two buffets, as he was still preoccupied with his evacuations. I approached the wanting self-serve bar and filled a plate. There wasn’t much to choose from. The buffet was perhaps three feet long. There was some ground beef that had dried out on the top, a pan with taco shells that had cracked down the middle and some wilted lettuce.

Attempting to avoid diarrhea, I loaded my plate with the only other thing on offer that day, jalapeno poppers. Or so I thought. I returned to the table and, before my father returned, I had time to bite into a popper and be disappointed and confused.

When dad got back to the table, the waitress was there refilling my drink. Dad requested the house made salsa and went to fill a plate. When he returned, he found on the table a bowl of ketchup with jalapenos sliced into it and cilantro sprinkled on top.

As he sat he said with a grin, “You must experience the bathroom!”. After having eaten a few “jalapeno poppers” I was only to quick to agree. Before making my exit, however, I lifted a “popper” in salute and watched as he also bit into one. His face creased, as mine had, in disappointment and confusion.

They were not, in fact, jalapeno poppers. They weren’t, in any respect, Mexican food at all. They were pigs in a blanket.

As dad sat regretting our choice, I visited the men’s room, another choice to be regretted. The toilet sat upon a raised rostrum not even large enough to support the entire base of the toilet. Sitting upon this was an experience I’ll not explain in detail. Who needs to read about that? Suffice it to say, it was scary. The sink, if sink it could be called, was so shallow that I couldn’t fit both hands under the stream of water at once.

After washing each hand individually, I returned to our table for the most horribly non-mundane culinary experience I’ve ever had.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…take risks when you eat out. Many times you’ll find a “diamond in the rough”.

A don’t…eat at a Mexican restaurant staffed by white people. Or, if you must, tread very carefully. They may take too many liberties and present you with unexpected and horrible Mexican-American fusion disasters.

Fish Cupcakes Taste Like Fish? I Should Be Surprised if They Didn’t

My wife and I recently watched a cooking show. If you knew us, this would certainly not be news to you. Since you quite likely do not, enjoy this meaningless update.


Consider the following confession: My wife and I enjoy food. More specifically, we enjoy good food. The cooking show we watched most certainly did not feature good food, but we watched it anyway because, like most people we know, we are entranced by meaningless competition and procrastinate ludicrously when watching said meaningless competition.

You’ve likely gathered by now, due to contextual clues inherent in the preceding text, that we were watching a cooking competition. To narrow it down, it was a baking competition. The challenge presented to the competitors was to bake a certain number of cupcakes. They were given certain requirements upon which the cupcakes would be judged. Halfway through the time allotted to complete the cupcakes, they were given a surprise qualitative element that must be incorporated into the cupcakes.

Said element was the addition of fish. FISH!

The bakers, attempting to appear nonplussed by the mandate that they add fish, FISH!, to their cupcakes, scrambled to find the perfect fish, FISH!, to satisfy the judges.

Once the cupcakes were baked and the appropriate dramatic element had been achieved through the presentation of soundbites provided by bakers barely hiding their not nonplussed attitude at having to add fish, FISH!, to their cupcakes, the judges began to taste the offerings of the aforementioned bakers.

DISCLAIMER: Don’t read the previous sentence out loud. You’ll die of asphyxiation.

One of the judges actually said, in a snooty nasal voice, and I paraphrase, “Your cupcake is good, but it tastes like fish.”



“It’s good, but it tastes like fish.”?!

You’re dinging them for a fish cupcake tasting like fish? One of the requirements was that the cupcake feature fish! And you’re upset that it tastes like fish?

Golly gee, I wonder why?

I’ll tell you why:

“It tastes like fish because IT’S FLIPPING FULL OF FISH!”

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…roll with the punches if you ever enter a baking competition. It seems it can become a strange, unfair, deliciously wild ride.

A don’t…bake fish, FISH!, cupcakes. Or eat them. Or have fish, FISH!, and cupcake materials in the same room with one another, let alone the same bowl, oven or serving apparatus.