The Waffle Matrix?

Let me preface this by saying I've never made waffles using Krusteaz. By virtue of the name, I trusted that it would be, you know, eaz-y. In hindsight, my mistake may have been changing the recipe. Instead of 'just adding water', I added milk. I can only assume that was the cause of the explosion.

As I poured the milky batter into the waffle iron, I was careful to fill all of the gaps. You know, the gaps that, when unfilled, cause the final product to be misshapen instead of square. I once ended up with a waffle shaped like Hitler, but that's a story for another time.

As I poured, I noticed that the batter was rising quickly, so I hastened my efforts and snapped the iron closed. Immediately, the batter began oozing out of the sides, which wasn't troubling at all, considering it happens every time I make waffles. The sheer volume of batter-ooze was my only hint that something could be awry. Unshaken and unsuspecting, I returned my attention to the bacon, which was nearing the perfect crispiness. It's a crying shame to allow bacon to overcook.

About 2 minutes later, when 'it' happened, the sound was unique, and it was more surprising than loud. Nobody was looking directly at the waffle iron when it went off. Following the 'boom', we heard the sound of a ricocheting plastic latch-turned-projectile, and an odd sounding thud. It all happened so quickly, none of the witnesses - my wife, daughter, son, Cooper the Dog and me - were able to tell which direction things were flying. As we turned to face the waffle iron, this is what we saw:

The latch, under immense pressure, had given way, and the appliance had blown open. One of the waffles had been violently expelled (the 'thud'), and the lid was hyper-extended. The remaining waffles were smoking like Kirsty Alley's Mini Cooper.

But here's the troubling part. At the time of this writing, our hunt for the missing waffle remains fruitless.

The breakfast pastry is, for lack of a better word, gone. It's not under the table, on the counter, above the cabinets, or on top of the fridge. It's not on the floor. It's not in anything. It's not stuck to the wall somewhere. For all intents and purposes, it has completely disappeared.

Perhaps the waffle is now with the socks. Maybe it shot through a time vortex and now exists sometime in the future. I suppose it could have burst into individual molecules, which are now floating about the house, propelled by ceiling fans. Or, maybe it is now feeding the passengers on flight MH370, the Malaysian Airlines jet that mysteriously disappeared into thin air recently.

Other things we can't find include the blown latch, and anything on the Internet that says milk is combustible, except this one article.

The good news is, we can toss the waffle iron, instead of going through the trouble of washing it. So there's that. Maybe the cleaning lady will find the waffle when she comes Tuesday. Until then, the story is that, on this date, in this house, a perfectly aimed breakfast appliance exploded, at the same moment a waffle-sized slit formed in the fabric of the universe.

I hope whoever is on the other side has syrup.

Mmmm, brinner!

On an episode of Scrubs, one of the characters mention that he loves breakfast for dinner... "brinner."

I'm not sure why it's so appealing to have pancakes for dinner, but it has long been a favorite of mine. Maybe it's because breakfast is comfort food, and at the end of a stressful day, it hits the spot. As a kid, I just remember Aunt Jemima and Johnny Carson making it all feel better.

When left to my own devices

We returned from the East Coast this afternoon, to a nice clean house... albeit devoid of a cohesive food selection.

I thought about a Weight Watchers frozen chicken dish but it was freezer burned. (expired in February) I searched high and low for a frozen pizza, nothing. There aren't even any tortilla chips in the house I could eat with salsa.

So I was forced to improvise. While Emily is out playing Bunko and probably enjoying a full selection of appetizers, I made myself a sandwich.
Yes, it's an egg sandwich. With cheese. And pepperoni. And mayo.

I feel like it's pretty inventive. What's more, it tastes pretty good! No complaints here.

A smattering of photos (and by "smattering" I mean two)

While the van was in the shop getting $2,100 in repairs for a hit-and-run, I rented this:


It made me miss my old pickup. The Toyota Tundra is a really nice truck, but got really bad mileage. I'd prefer the Tacoma if forced to choose one.

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Last weekend I made my famous Skidmark Chili. It was probably the best batch I've ever made, with just the right mixture of savory, sweet and hot. It's very chunky and features five kinds of meat.

Dr. Mike printed up a shirt to commemorate the event.


Yeah that's right. I'm smooth.

How you say... bland?

As I was watching the Today Show crew discussing and sampling different Chinese cuisine this morning I wondered... is Chinese food in China any better than Mexican food in Mexico?

Every time I've traveled to Mexico I've been disappointed with the flavor of the food. We've Americanized to the extent that real, authentic Mexican cuisine seem a little flat. I wonder if we've done the same to Chinese food.

Mmmmm, I love me some Chinese. I'm calling Number One now. Or maybe New China. Eh, their menus are identical.

As an aside, if anyone knows the recipe for Ta-Chin Chicken, I'd love you forever. It's a dish they served in Columbia MO at place called Wang's Mandarin House, and I can't seem to find it anywhere... it's a crispy chicken dish with onions, green peppers and a delicious spicy brown sauce.

Extra saturated fat, please

Where fast food is concerned, my favorite restaurant is Wendy's. Tonight as I watched a commercial for the new "Baconator," I wondered why they couldn't have come out with this sandwich back when I didn't give a shit about my health.

Two huge beef patties, cheese, more cheese and 6 slices of bacon. That's probably 1/3 pound of hog. They don't even bother to offer healthy toppings like lettuce or tomato. Hell no.

Just the name Baconator brings to mind arterial clogs, hypertension, stents and other such things. I'm pretty sure you'd need to pop statins like they were Skittles prior to consumption.

Steady, Dave. Steady...

Are you going to finish your bacon?

More Gaffigan hilarity. He talks a lot about food. I wonder if there is such a thing as a bacon Hot Pocket...

That's my job

One of my fatherly duties is weekend breakfast. We usually eat a hot breakfast of some kind; pancakes, eggs/bacon/potatoes/toast, omelettes, waffles... weekend mornings are always fun.

Now that Grayson is here, I'm honing my Mickey Mouse pancake skills. (With all due respect to Disney's copyright.) I used to make them for Courtney all the time, but it's been a while. Here's this morning's effort, with blueberry pancake batter:


Em and I had to split his, since he's still on the bottle. I hope he learns who Mickey Mouse is, since it would be a real bitch trying to make a Bob the Builder cake.

My folks (mostly Mom and Grandpa) made me Mickey cakes as a little boy. It's one of my great childhood memories.

"Cangies daddy?"

A famous Courtney quote. She couldn't say candy, she pronounced it "CAIN-gees." Anyway, as I perused the cangies aisle of Walgreens the other day, I started reminiscing about when I was a real afficionado. A list of my favorites and/or notables follows.

Wax lips:

We all did them as kids. They were great as a candy AND as a toy. We would nibble away at the edges until they became thin, sickly looking lips. Then we'd begin at the ends and make them thin, sickly and pursed lips. This candy put an end to the parental edict 'don't play with your food.'

Soda bottles:

Similar to wax lips, except with a special sweet center. I tired of the bland wax pretty quickly, but I'd make the liquid last. My approach - bite off the top, drink a little and bite the top closed again. Repeat until the good stuff was gone. Feed the remainder of the wax to the dog. Watch him for hours.

Circus peanuts:

I mention them not because I love them, but because I loathe them. Horrible texture experience and sickening flavor. Just nasty. 'Nuff said.

Payday:

Reigning favorite candy bar. Salty on the outside, sweet on the inside, crunchy in between. It's a veritable cornucopia of flavors and textures. I justify consumption by telling myself peanuts are full of the good cholesterol.

Gummy Worms:

Guilty pleasure. I usually consume them on a long road trip when I'm alone. I look away as the clerk rings up my purchase, then I make believe I'm five years old and can already drive. I mean why would an adult eat worms, for chrissake?

Bit-O-Honey:

Jaw-locking, diabetes-inducing slabs of sugary goodness. One candy bar lasts you most of a day and that's without an insulin injection. It battles Payday for my favorite candy bar, but its limited availability keeps it a close second. And also I have fillings I want to keep.

Hot Tamales:

What can I say? You can't see a movie without Hot Tamales, popcorn and lemonade. They are the perfect test for sweet-tooth. If you eat several at a time you can even develop these little cinammon blisters on the roof of your mouth. (Hey did anyone notice Lindsey Lohan is holding Hot Tamales?)

Marshmallow chicks:

Another one I included just to say "blech." I eat one every Easter, just to say I did. Kind of a rite of passage or something. They are too sweet and cause me to feel like I'm drowning. Another great sweet-tooth locator. Never a pleasant experience. And yet I persist...

Boston Beans:

Mmmmmm. Sort of a weird texture/flavor combo. I can eat three to five pounds before puking them back up. I never understood why Boston gets credit for the candy. The actual bean, I understand.

Any favorite cangies to share?

America retains the title!!!!

Mesmerizing.

Em and I just watched the 2008 Nathan's Hot Dog Eating contest on ESPN. Totally tubular!

In the first year, (1988) it took only 12 dogs to set the record. In 2007, Joey Chestnut set a record at 66. This year, including a tie-breaking five unit dog-off, 64 were eaten.

I'll be honest, it's completely disgusting... and a bit ostentatious, considering people are starving in some parts of the world... but a great American tradition nonetheless. (and the look on Em's face during the competition was priceless)

It begs the question, would a gay man have an unfair advantage?

Best ribs in NE Missouri

As touted by the Rural Electric Coop's quarterly mag (and pointed out by my friend "Bird")... we finally stopped at Piggy's BBQ, a little hole-in-the-wall on Main Street in O'Fallon.

Best ribs I've ever tasted. The secret is in the rub, I think, and the fact that they are smoked out front (literally in their parking lot - see right side of the pic above) daily. At less than 20 bucks a slab, I am tempted to take home 3 or 4 for my next BBQ and save the briquets.*

It comes with three sauce choices, including a regular, a nice spicy jalapeno BBQ, and a sweet, smoky one.

I can hear my arteries slamming shut. Time to pop another Crestor...

*yes, I admit - if you get an invitation to my place for ribs, chances are I will be buying them from Piggy's and claiming them as my own. Shit happens.

Thinking food

No time like the present for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

We went for sushi earlier tonight and although one of my favorite meals, it always leaves me wanting something else. Generally cereal or a PBJ in the middle of the night hits the spot.

There's something about sitting in the kitchen at 3 am, the ticking of the clock the only sound in the house... with a tall glass of milk, jars of Skippy and strawberry preserves, and a fresh loaf of bread.

You can do a lot of thinking over a meal like that. I wonder if someone, somewhere else in the world, is doing the same thing. And if you're out there, do you ever eat yours toasted?

Freaky messages from a magic cookie

I am beside myself to explain some of the world's mysteries. How does Old Faithful know when to erupt? How do birds know which way is north? Who put the bomp in the bomp, bomp, bomp?

Add to that another evasive mystery: how does Confucius get those little strips of paper to go into his typewriter? And, how does he always seem to get it right? Here's a fortune I received in a cookie the same day we found out we were pregnant:


I have a daughter already, and the timing of this message - the day we took the pregnancy test - is pretty "twilight zone." Still, the skeptic in me prevented me from making much of it.

Fast forward to a few days ago. Next fortune:


THAT'S freaky. If I didn't know better, I would think someone was trying to pull a fast one.

Your standard pan, you know, cake

Saturday morning. Nice day. Good night of sleep. I decided I would make the lovely Violet a pancake breakfast, which was to consist of pancakes. (I realize using the term "breakfast" may be misleading - it sounds like there were side dishes, OJ, etc. Nope, just the cakes.)

So I pulled out the pancake mix and began the preparation. It wasn't long before I realized it wasn't your standard pancake mix, it was something quite alien. By alien, I mean it was the manual mix.

Damn. I hate the manual mix. If a recipe requires more than adding water, I'm lost.

No worries, I thought. I can do this.

So I pulled out the other ingredients - oil, eggs, milk. I stood gazing at the recipe for about ten minutes, trying to reduce the "8 to 11 cakes" down to four. Finally, I decided, screw it! I didn't need this Jemima bitch telling me what to do. I tossed in a couple of eggs, a drip of oil, then mixed in milk until it was the consistency of... something that would be, you know, a similar consistency to pancake batter.

Apparently it wasn't thick enough, because when I put it on the griddle, the cakes immediately ran together. I tried using the spatula as a batter-dam for a while, but gave up when it oozed around the edges and made contact anyway. "Just let the bastards cook," I said to myself, "and see how they come out."

Then I began to experience cake-flip anxiety. Will they flip cleanly? Will there be side-slippage? Overlap? Will the color be consistent? I broke a sweat.

By that time, not only had they run together, but also in the other direction, all the way to the lip of the griddle. So I would have to flip them with a sort of diagonal gesture, a fluid motion. This would require a level of grace I'm simply not known for.

Upon flipping the first one, all of my fears were realized. Slippage, overlap, burn. Half of the first cake flipped off the edge of the griddle, the other half went on top of the second cake. Long story short, I had to abort the entire first batch of cakes.

Luckily, the kitchen sink was directly behind me so at least THAT motion was graceful. I cursed the stove manufacturer, the rough edge of the spatula and whoever invented the dish. Sir Richard "Flap" Jackson, if I'm not mistaken.

Upon beginning anew with a fresh, clean griddle, I applied the batter, only less this time. Suddenly, I realized I had started without allowing proper warming time.

The new, smaller pancakes ran like a mother.

This time I was able to salvage them by turning the burner to the "spot weld" setting for about two minutes. It froze the cakes in their tracks and restored my smile. Which, at this point, had become more of a smirk. I was ten seconds from hitting the McDonalds drive-thru.

Anyway, the second batch worked. They weren't great, but at least edible. Em dutifully consumed the cakes with a smile. Maybe more of a smirk.


I snapped this picture of the aftermath. Some of the mess is visible, but it's not a perfect representation of "pancake ground-zero." Note that the cake is quite well done. That's from the "spot weld" maneuver. Also note the clear signs of side-slippage.

Weekend Photo Essay

My new computer has a card reader that allows easy access to my PDA data card, so I was able to off-load a bunch of photos that I've been taking for the past year. I will now bore you with them. What better to do with your weekend???



Here's Emily in a deep, contemplative state. Or, mad at me. Whichever. She's awesome.





Mike and Paula's cat, Sigma, is the only cat I've ever seen sit like this. He's an anona... anomo... anomal... he's weird.



Back in the 1980's, I worked at the Lake of the Ozarks at a station called KLOZ, and it was in this building. I took this picture on a recent trip through Eldon, and honestly, the building looks about the same as it did when I worked there.

That door in the middle of the picture... led into the STUDIO where we broadcasted. Ha!

On a recent trip to a Thai restaurant, this is the dish Emily ordered. It came in a nice half-pineapple "dish" and tasted a little weird. I think there was shrimp and some other kind of seafood in it. Not too sure.

I'm not sure if this was the dessert from the same restaurant, but we thought it was pretty enough to snap a picture.

Oh wait, it was Emily's birthday dessert from this year! Ice cream pie.

On a grocery shopping adventure I apparently found the "Yard-O-Beef" summer sausage to be funny. I think every guy should have a "yard-o-beef."



Ditto with the "Pickle in a Pouch." Every girl should have one. That's just some priceless shit, there.



Here's Emily feeling a little maternal with my nephew, Preston. She'd make a GREAT mom. Definitely has the boobs for it. :)

"In loving memory of our son David."

I was in line at the bank the other day and got behind this van. It certainly brought everything into perspective. I have no troubles, I have no worries. I wept for a minute for these people. I must have been having an emotional day.

Monday night

Violet and I went for a nice walk in the park this evening, (and that was no walk in the park!) then cooked up some shish-kabobs on the grill. Shrimp, scallops, peppers, onions, mushrooms, pineapple and squash, along with a baked potato and glass of wine.


Now we're finishing the wine in front of the television watching some baseball. It feels like summer!

I am wearing socks because my toenail paint is chipping badly.

Yesterday we did some major tailgating outside Busch stadium prior to the Cardinals/Brewers game. Burgers and KOSHER weiners on the grill, along with beer and/or soda. Okay, really only beer... and don't ask me why Dr. Mike and Paula brought kosher weiners - none of us are even Hindu.

Jerky Boy

Several months ago, I made a deal with the devil about my beef jerky habit. Violet was a casual smoker (mostly when she drank) and I was a fairly hard-core consumer of the dried meat.

One night after a stop at the convenience store, I opened a large pouch of "cowboy candy" in the car and Vi nearly vomited. It turned out she couldn't stand the smell of it.

Personally, I've never met anyone who found jerky THAT abhorrent. Never have I seen the smell alone induce gag reflex. (although the smell of Mike's belches have been known to make his brother-in-law puke) Beef jerky is a tame substance. It's earthy. Cowboys eat it. In its other form, Slim Jim, it's one of the major food groups in college.

But for some reason it makes Violet sick... so we made a deal. I would stop eating jerky if she quit smoking.

Most would say that's a lopsided deal - jerky doesn't cause cancer, yellow nails or birth defects. Correct, all of it. But it was worth it because only my separation from jerky would convince her to stop killing herself. So I went on the beef jerky wagon.

Until yesterday.

First I will tell you she WASN'T in the car - I was alone on a long drive between Columbia and St. Louis and felt a little tired so I stopped at the BP.

There they were... between the Hostess rack and the Chester Fried Chicken display. Pouch after pouch of pungent dried flesh. Beckoning.

Let me tell you, at $6.99 per 4-ounce package, that shit is pricey... most addictive substances are. I can just see a jerky tax coming soon. But price was no object, so after a look over my shoulder and a guilty blush, I purchased a pouch of premium cut natural style hickory-flavored beef and a Sprite Zero to wash it down.

When I got back in the car, it was like I hadn't eaten in days. I broke a sweat during the strenuous mastication... I chewed as fast as my jaw would allow. The aroma filled the car. My mind drifted back to a time when I could do this freely... to a time in my distant past when jerky wasn't prohibited. I swooned. For a few brief moments, as waves of saliva began breaking down the hickory meat and sending it on its way through my system, I resented those who made me quit. I found dozens of justifications for what I was doing. Hunger, boredom, sleepiness. Lack of sodium.

Then, quietly at first but slowly more pronounced and invasive, names of heart attack victims started running through my head. Thoughts of hypertension and gout began raining down upon me. Also slowly building, a rancid mixture of salt, bile and beast threatened to burst forth from my esophagus... and I realized I had done it. I had fallen back into the self-abuse that IS jerky consumption.

Afterward when the smell was gone and I was alone with my self-loathing, I regretted my actions. I saw the error of my ways. It's like any other addiction... you simply lose control. One pouch leads to another. Then another and another until your jaw aches with temporomandibular joint disorder and your bank account is empty. Finally, when you can't pay your rent, your friends have left and it's just you... alone with a million little silica gel packs... you realize. Oh yes. You realize.

I believe I've caught it before it got out of hand. I'm going to a JA meeting on Wednesday night. The friends of Jack Link have my back. The battle will be hard, but I will do my best.

I'll keep you updated. Wish me luck.

Vacation - Day One

The trouble with driving 14 hours from Missouri to Florida is that your underwear gets completely bunched up in your ass crack, you get sucked into convenience store vortices along the way where you purchase things you aren't normally interested in, such as Hostess Snowballs and those red hot fries with the picture of Andy Capp on the front, and you find out how goddamn long it takes to drive across Georgia.

And you discover that everyone in Atlanta drives like a blind, inconsiderate asshole who must be on the way to a fire. (eerie sidenote, we passed the overpass where the busload of baseball players plunged over the edge)

But the Hummer rode like a magic carpet, Emily's mom was entertaining and we discovered that none of us really like Abba. (we forced ourselves to listen to their "#1 Singles" CD all the way through, and although I recognized many of them, overall I'm not a fan. I mean, what the hell is Fernando about, really? And Money, Money, Money just sucks. But I do have what I would consider an unhealthy level of enjoyment of Dancing Queen)

We arrived in Ocala at around 9-ish and I got to meet Emily's Grandma, Aunt and Uncle... who are fabulous people. We are staying in one of the homes they own, which is a two bedroom place with an amazing lanai and all the upgrades. And to think I've been wasting time in hotel rooms all these years.

One of my policies on vacation is NOT to eat at franchise restaurants. I stick to locally-owned places where you'll find the freshest local foods and it's not the same old thing you can get back home. So we're getting ready to venture out for breakfast and a little shopping. I want to find a little diner with some eggs and potatoes, coffee and a newspaper.

I'll let you know what other kind of trouble we get into.

PS - did you know John Travolta lives in Ocala, Florida? We'll probably run into him while we're here. If so, I'll tell him how I really enjoyed Wild Hogs but Emily didn't, and he'll probably glare at her condescendingly for a moment, then John and I will go out and play golf and drink beers and become the best of friends.