ATTENTION: The Pizza Demon Is On The Loose

The capitalization in the title was not the result of a locked down caps key. No, no, my cries for attention are backed by good reason. This is not one of those "meat log blogger who cried wolf" situations, especially if you own a Papa Johns, Papa Murphy's or a Papa Hut.

Pizza, as you lovely franchise owners know it, is in danger.

Earlier this year, in a fit of ingenuity I delivered a culinary piledriver to the rulebook's spine when I boldly mixed one part sandwich and one part pizza. The result was the French Dip Pizza; a zesty and flavorful dining experience that left the rulebook with a noticeable limp.

But now, after what the Pizza Demon did, I would reckon the rulebook is down for the count.

On Monday night the Pizza Demon broke loose from his cheesy crust cage and if we ever catch the slippery bastard, a stronger cage must be built. I'm calling for crazy bread.
The P.D. tore through the kitchen, throwing caution to the wind and ingredients on the counter. The Demon slopped dough makings in one corner, dairy products in another and mounds of meat in a third. From my hiding place in the cupboard I witnessed a kneading process that made me feel sorry for the dough and nervous for the granite counter tops. From there, the whirling Pizza Devil attacked the dairy pile. To my surprise, buried underneath heaps of Beecher's cheese, (which the Demon ground at an impressive pace), was a carton of eggs. My curiosity was peak... but the Demon moved on to address the meaty mountain. Curiosity spiked. The 'Za Monsta brought bacon to a sizzle, thinly sliced Canadian bacon and chopped hot links. The smells were becoming intoxicating and the cupboard was somehow getting smaller. Fortunately, as my body was seemingly thickening, the plot really was. The Pizza Demon took the bacon from the Great White North, some stray vegetables and a few badly beaten eggs and began to concoct a scramble. While eggs changed consistency, the Demon spread its dough carefully on a cookie sheet. The care that this hideous beast showed for this aspect of the process was a jarring juxtaposition to his previous behavior but, as they say, Pizza Demons really do love pizza. The pizza ceremony continued, but not at all as I expected it.
--Pizza franchise owners are advised to pay EXTRA CLOSE ATTENTION from here on out--
The Demon disregarded sauce. Not even a white sauce! Instead it began to lay out the freshly scrambled scramble, which it topped with a Green Bayian portion of cheese. The final touch was a meaticulous garnishing of American bacon and hot links. I am still a bit astonished that the Demon did not hear my jaw as it dropped upon my cramped knees.

With a look of zeal upon its face, the Demon placed the "pizza" into the oven and plopped down in front to enjoy the show. After 15 minutes the intoxicating smell was conjuring drunken hallucinations in me. The cabinet was definitely getting smaller. My wits were approaching their end and I was flirting with desperate measures. A close quarters confrontation with a Pizza Demon, especially one on the verge of a pizza pie climax, is not something I would wish upon a Nazi Vegetable. Fortunately for me, on this day, luck was in my corner. My neighbor's big dumb dog, having smelled a far superior alternative to its normal puppy chow, wandered into the house. Pizza Demons, as you all should have been taught in prep school, are deathly afraid of dogs. And this one, despite having a glorious creation near completion, was no different. After a few tense moments of confrontation, the Demon bolted. I was free! And better yet, I had dinner. I removed the demonic creation from the oven and sliced away; tossing a slice to my canine savior before I dove in.

This was like no pizza I have ever had before. This was in a different galaxy.
The breakfast burrito now feels like a cheap cop-out and I doubt normal pizza will ever seem the same.
Lastly, if you own a pizza franchise in the Pacific Northwest, BE ON THE LOOK OUT.

THE PIZZA DEMON IS ON THE LOOSE

A Tryptophan Down Memory Lane

I have been out of it for quite some time, but I'm sure I don't have to tell you that. You have been faithfully checking the blog, day after day, praying with all your meaty might for some juicy new content to sink your teeth into.
Well I have good news. Meaty new content is here. You are reading it right now! And if you continue reading, I will try to explain my two month absence.

It was the night of Wednesday September 25th, 2013 and my mother, bless her heart, decided to whip up a full Thanksgiving dinner. There was stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole and of course, a big ol' turkey. I could barely contain myself... and I didn't.
We settled down to dinner at 5:30 PST. With zeal, I cleaned off plate after plate of gravy soaked goodness, but around 6:45 I felt, as the laymen would say, full. I pressed on regardless. Thanksgiving only comes once a year so when you get a second chance to celebrate American gluttony, you don't mess around. I continued loading heaping helpings, excluding mashed potatoes and green bean casserole to leave more room for tender turkey and godly gravy. I finally crashed at 8:15, my eyes drooped and I was forced to throw in the napkin. By 1:30 PM the next day I was still asleep on the dining room table and my presence was beginning to interfere with my family's enjoyment of meals. My father attempted to wake me, poking and prodding me with his wrinkly fingers. I didn't budge. I was out cold turkey.
I finally came to this past Thursday. I awoke to find myself swimming in a pool of drool at the head of the table. I was out for 50 days and as doctors would later explain, I was in either a state of severe hibernation or a slight coma; but all I knew was that I was hungry.

Once I was able to slither out of the loving clutches of my worried parents, I hit the streets. Like a jungle cat I prowled, pouncing upon any morsel of meat I came across. I ate hulking french dip sandwiches, a poetic meatball and sausage sub, handfuls of jimmy dean queso dip, pigsties of pigs in a blanket, and a bounty of breakfast burritos.

My meaty loving compatriots, I'M BACK!

Shocking Conclusions

Twas a night for Hawks…

As well as a night of impatient rain. I was six blocks from home when rain made an uninvited appearance. She crept at first, initially not wanting to spoil the mood. But then, like a child with a story to tell, she erupted, taking over the whole scene. I was a just under four blocks from home and woefully underdressed. She wielded thunder and lighting, the highs and lows of her torrential tantrum. I trudged on with Charles Bradley howling through cheap headphones to hold the mood. Misery does love company. But, as I entered the final block, dry thoughts began to pervade. Angered by my optimism, rain threw down a calculated bolt. With a sudden “POP” Charles Bradley was dead, everything went black, and rain was no longer a concern.

In the distance I heard the cries of the lambulance. My eyes fluttered open, greeted by a multitude of unfamiliar peepers. Disoriented and disinterested, I opted to close my ‘lids tight once again, letting shock wrap me in its pacifying arms.

I came to once again, this time to familiar faces. The hospital room was barely discernible through a sea of friends and family. The room stank of worry.

Dr. Rumack entered, ushering anyone not bearing the Mustard name out of the room. We exchanged pleasantries and secret doctoral handshakes before he dove into the diagnosis. His bluntness was appreciated. He didn’t sugar coat it… He didn’t even bacon wrap it. The lightening had struck a frayed wire on my headphones, sending half a billion volts of electricity up both the right and left side and straight into my brainium. The shock, he explained to me, left me physically unchanged but with a messy mental mix up. Wires had been crossed; connections had been crissed.

Days later I was discharged, returning to the kitchen in hopes of eating away the stress and worry that was eating away at me. As I gathered ingredients I began realize the extinct of my mental muddle. My left and right brain were locked in battle, one side demanding Mexican, the other Greek.

In the end, I let instincts take over. I summoned Tzatziki, chorizo, feta, carne asada, pita and jalapenos. They entered with apprehension. Introductions were doled out, and cautious hand shakes were exchanged but to no avail. The sides remained divided, like a fraction. I carried on with my mad plot, insensitive to the participants preferences. The kitchen was a battlefield, strewn about were wounded presumptions and dying conventions. My twisted brain birthed a culinary contradiction like the world had never seen. I give to you the Greekadilla.

Subperb

As I departed from my parent's sub-urban sanctuary this morning every sub-atomic particle in my body oozed desire. In the nooks and crannies of my sub-conscious lurked a desperate need for sub-stancial sustenance. My heart cried for the hole in my stomach. On-boarded my southbound shuttle I attempted to banish my thoughts to the sub-liminal. Despite sound efforts, my mid-morning mussing would not be sub-dued. My mind was locked.
The comfort of my desk provides the opportunity for a second effort. I dove into my work, hoping to sub-merge my cravings. Still no luck. Two strikes. Sub-sequently, the next several hours were a neurotic collection of sub-par work. By 11:30 my hankering had so greatly sub-tracted from dictated duties that I began to distract. It began with myself, spreading like the common cold to those around me, I sub-jected coworkers to a steady stream of mindless amusement and irksome distractions. As 11:50 approached, coworkers' patients and my wits were both wearing thin. After a couple tense minutes, at 11:53, I finally sub-mitted. Franticly I prodded the elevator's downward arrow. I knew the solution and that no sub-stitute would suffice. An anxious 9-1-1 call from the lobby of the Rainier Tower at 11:57 reported a rogue free-safety on a war path for an unseen quarterback.* I descended upon LoPriore Bros. Pasta Bar hot headed in a cold sweat. An order dribbled out of my frothing mouth. The man behind the counter knew just what to sub-scribe for such droopy-brained madness. Sub-lime meatballs zapped stress and made suffering sub-side; and if you haven't followed the sub-tle sub-text, I will tell you now, I had a sub for lunch.

*My lawyer tells me this could have been anybody.

My American Escapade: A story with meaty undertones

Just like T, I left U.
I left you Meat-Log-Blogless in this big bad world. Sure you probably went back to reread past Meat Log Blogs but I'm almost certain that didn't suffice. More than likely, despite an attempt to "stay strong", you were still haunted by that same feeling that your dog feels when you walk out the door, the cold reality that your dear companion is surely gone forever. I apologize for this. It saddens me knowing the mental anguish that my departure caused you, but alas, my trip was inevitable. Prior to departure I was neck deep in responsibility and about to go under. As stress oozed into my life, my writing joined other aspects of my personal life in a steady downward march. I was a sad transplant from a Southwest Airlines commercial, desperately needing to get away.
And away I got.
So dear reader, if you can find it in your right and left ventricle to forgive me, come snuggle up on my literary lap while I recount tales of my American Escapade.

The journey begins with beams of playful morning light dancing about my eyelids. As my 'lids burst open, terror erupted. The clock read 9:14 and I was a hearty two and a half hours late for my 6:45 flight. Had my performance been heard by anyone but myself, an onlistener would sure have called the cops. The conclusion would have easily been drawn that I had either flown off the handle in a fit of domestic violence or flew clear over the cuckoo's nest, not that I had missed a flight. Fortunately, after a sacrificial offering of $522 to my chosen God of air-travel, Alaskan Airlines, I was granted passage on a later flight.

I was greeted by my hermano in DFW (that's Dallas Fort-Worth for any of you readers who aren't up on the hip airline lingo). I was a slick six hours behind schedule and unfashionably late for starting a road trip that night. The next morning we awoke early to visit my 91-year-old grandma before we christened our cross country cruise. My grandma is a beautiful, opinionated and intelligent women but the onset of Dementia is leading to deterioration. She is frail and failing but her humor and zeal shines through. Her presence was a blessing, her spirit is astounding, and I will never forget her words. She kept telling my brother and I in her sweet southern drawl to "have fun, because that's what's important". We kissed her goodbye and tucked her shrewd advice in our back pockets. We hit the road knowing damn well, but not daring to mention, the finality of this goodbye. The relentless pace of youth propelled us into our journey but the gravity of reality quickly caught up with us. Mere hours into our trip we were stopped at a red light in North Texas bawling our eyes out; surely committing an offense, which if caught, is punishable by Texas law. We dried our tears and moved on, lucky to escape persecution and imprisonment. Those were the last tears to descend cheeks during the duration of the trip. On the other hand, the fun that our Grandma encouraged was just beginning along with the consumption of meaty meals, which you have all been waiting patiently for.

Dry eyed and starving we decided to get the food fun cookin' in the North Texas town of Amarillo. Armed with the schnoz of a barbecue crazed blood hound and guided by Texas Monthly's list of the Top 50 Texas BBQ Joints, we quickly stumbled upon Tyler's BBQ. The magnetizing perfume of pulled pork dragged us toward the door. As we approached the counter a whiff of brisket rendered me weak at the knees. Having been made inept by overwhelming odors, I ordered in a blind stupor. What I ordered will forever remain unknown but I do know this much, it had Texas sized taste. The morsels of divinity that Tyler's BBQ expertly placed between buns where simply indescribable. So, in honor of efficiency, I give you one picture in place of a thousand misguided words.

We journeyed on, passing through Oklahoma, Colorado and Southern Utah before ending up in Salt Lake City on the doorstep of the state's best Mexican restaurant. I must, despite your cries for me to carry on with the culinary content, take a quick detour to pay homage to Southern Utah. So-Tah is the prime rib of outdoor adventure locations. My brother and I only scratched the surface, spending only a couple days in Canyonlands and Arches, but we both urge everyone to make the pilgrimage. You will not regret it. OK, now back to the meater at hand. The best Mexican restaurant in the fine state of Utah is the

.

We pulled into the parking lot at 11:06 am, a mere six minutes after opening, and were lucky to get a table. Masses of hungry Utahns (or is it Utahnians?) flooded the entrance. They provided a steady influx of reassurance that we truly where at the finest Mexican restaurant Utah had to offer. And then the food came. The

's

food needs no reassurance, its beauty stands alone. Having woken up with a hankering for overindulgence, I ordered the

 sampler platter. I was greeted by a cheese enchilada, a Taco a la Iguana, three jovial mariachi band members, a beef flauta topped with guacamole and sour cream, a pinata filled with ground beef, a chile relleno, a beef tostada, and a cake stolen from a little girl's quinceanera.

The meal was massive. The meal was magnificent. 

The meal changed me. My wobbly hobble to the car wouldn't have medaled in the 100 meter hip-replacement. My stomach bulged furiously; I braced for the worst. I called my mom, I said my prayers and I made the obligatory pledge never to eat again. But alas, my scientifically sound meatical diagnosis proved unfounded and an enchilada sauce covered alien did not burst forth through a self-made passageway carved out of my stomach lining.

In fact, quite the opposite happened. My Latin feast ultimately settled into its final resting place in my fully functioning digestive system, resulting in a pleasant, yet uneventful, day of driving to Yellowstone National Park. Our arrival in Yellowstone ushered in an era of flame-broiled concoctions, the star of the show naturally being the hot dog. The piping hot pups made two stellar appearances. The first trial by fire for our hot dogs produced ham and cheese wrapped dogs; we had to fight off families with stray sticks and tent stakes. When we unveiled our second act, cheesy campfire pigs-in-a-blanket, riots nearly broke out in the campgrounds.

As the riotous backpackers dispersed we made our escape. We fled to Butte, Montana in search of nourishment, only to find something far better. Butte is an odd place which at points is tragically reminiscent of the first four letter of its name, but, nuzzled in among abandoned buildings is a sanctuary known as 

.

Through a whole in the wall storefront John's minions slang pork chop sandwiches fit for a thrifty deep fried demigod. Each sandwich only set me back a couple dollars and in return I was set up with twin slabs of chopped pork. One sandwich is surely enough to quell the stabs of unattended appetite but, just to be safe, I would recommend getting two.

This Homeric epic concludes in the culinary confines of familiarity. As we neared out final destination, we passed through the epicenter of my bygone days of higher education and lowbrow debauchery. We stopped for lunch at a staple point of the Gonzaga diet, Spokane's Hawaiian getaway, Aloha Grill. With reckless abandon and childlike zeal my brother and I engulfed lava sauce smothered goodness. It was not until my final bites of Hawaiian heaven that I realized the error of my ways. My famished feasting had gotten in the way of my Meat Log Blog duties. Thus I must now confess, red-faced and embarrassed, that I did not snap a picture for your optical enjoyment. Maybe this is for the best though; I would have felt awful had I caused the drool-covered downfall of yet another PC.

As this longer than normal Meat Log Blog comes to an end I find myself compelled to carry it out just a bit further so that I may tie it back to my astounding grandmother. My road trip across eight of the United States will forever rank among the best trips of my life and was a thorough exercise in fun. Each moment of the excursion was touched by your presence and as a result, sincere fun and joy leaked into every pore.
I love you Grandma, I always will, and I lightheartedly swear to always do my damnedest to have fun. I implore you, dear reader, to do the same.

I've got a fevre

and cowbell wasn't going to do a damn thing.


Saturday evening I was afflicted by a rare combination of malnourishment, post-traumatic stress disorder and heat stroke that could have easily been fatal. The PTSD, and to some extent the malnourishment, was a direct result of accidental ingestion of a boca burger. The sneaky devil crept into my diet during a barbecue with family and what I thought was friends. Shaken by the realization that a loved one had fed me sculpted dog food, distraught by the fact that no one stopped me and mortified by my taste buds deplorable reaction to the invading faux-burger, I decided to find a place to be alone with my newly acquired demons. I settled on a plot of sun-soaked land a couple blocks away from the party. My mental battle began around 1:30 but quickly turned to a war. My stomach rumbles began to grow but its cries fell on deaf ears. I was a tortured soul; a mental wreck headed towards a major crash. Around 6:45 my good friend Teddy Roosevelt Wingo found me, a shriveled sweaty shadow of my former self. The hallow look painted on my face, the beads of sweat and the disjointed rambling told the story, I was in deep and needed help. Fortunately for me, Teddy was trained in Critical Protein Replenishment (CPR). He hoisted my failing mass over his shoulder and ran with the speed of a cheetah-Lamborghini hybrid to Philadelphia Fever Steak and Hoagie Shop on 23rd and Madison. Exhausted, Teddy let my near-lifeless body slump to the floor as he bellowed to the shopkeep to make his strongest meaticine on the double.

As D'andre, sandwich artisan extraordinaire, hastily prepared the "Fevre" Special Steak, the seconds flew off the clock and my condition worsened. Malnourishment left me weakened, the heat added a layer of nausea and PTSD acted as the glue, filling in the mental cracks of my breakdown. The point of no return was surely approaching when the first bite of "Fevre" Special Steak was ushered into my mouth by the pair of tense caretakers. 

That first bite provided a much needed spark to my failing system. As the next couple where shoveled in I began to regain major motor function. As the second half of the sandwich neared I was in control. My body felt rejuvenated and the anxious uncertainty that had haunted my mind was fading. The last morsel of the sandwich was the final step towards normalcy. I had conquered my ailments and besides a slight case of googly eyes, which faded with time, I was back!

Bonus Close Up!!!

FRENCH DIP PIZZA

Need I say more?!?

Well, I will, but not too much. First off, Double DD Meats in Mountlake Terrace is the holy land. I recommend that all of my dear readers make a journey. Now, without further adieu, here come up a hearty serving of photographic proof of the crowning achievement of my life to this point. The game has been changed. French Dip Pizza is the next big thing. French Dip Pizza trumps sliced bread in its sleep.

The end. Game over. I'm off to perfect the recipe.

Too Hideous to Love, Too Delicious to Disregard

I am the love child of Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde and Emeril Lagasse. A maniacal man of meat fueled by a twisted mixture of coffee, alcohol and pork products. Propelled by pride and dumb luck I hang on by a thread while normalcy unravels. In the heat of last weekend, delusion and fantasy reached a fever pitch. I was getting weird and my culinary courage had led me down a dark path. It all started with vegetables...

A tornado of technicolor vegetables whirled into my kitchen. They looked oddly beautiful but were clearly dead set on ruining my meat blog street cred. With my reputation in danger of disintegration and my sanity by no means safe I made a desperate lunge for stability. My attempt at stability garnered no results, but I did find some chicken.

Upon introducing poultry to pan I felt comforted. Upon remembering that chicken tastes like chicken I felt reassured. My culinary conscience seemed to be clearing and through the clouds of steam I caught a glimpse of a divine light.

The light was radiating off the subtle sheen of freshly cooked bacon. All seemed right in the world once again. The beautiful combo of bacon and chicken smiled up at me. But then, as if possessed by a health-conscious demon, I made an out of character decision. Instead of throwing all the vile vegetables into the nearest trashcan, I opted to throw them in with the heavenly meat products.

The culinary kaleidoscope I had concocted was a pleasure to behold but the watering down of the dish's meaty content was troubling. I forged forward nonetheless, doctoring up a white sauce. I plunged my colorful creation and its accompanying sauce into a couple crust lined pie pans and after 45 minutes of mad science, my Frankensteinian pot pie was alive!

As I sat down at the table, ceremonial first bite staring me in the face, I reflected on my current situation. -- I'm a meat log blogger. I'm fresh off a decisive 40th post and I'm now breathing life into a vegetable laden monster. What have I created? What have I become? What have I done?! -- But wait! The bite that passed between my reluctant lips was laced with fiery flavor. I melted, I conceded. Be still my beating heart. Assorted unmentionables mixed with a hefty portion of chicken and a bunch o' big bad bacon tasted really freek-a-leekin' good.

In the culinary kingdom taste reigns supreme, which means despite my loyal allegiance to the royal family of meat, exceptions must be made.

You won this round veggies. You were an excellent addition.  

The BIG 4-0

The monkey clinging to my back this past week has been the big 4-0. He snuck up and jumped on, escaped from a captivity of contentment and hell bent on destroying any semblance of emotional stability I may have initially possessed. My ride-along primate partner was my fortieth Meat Log Blog post and with each passing day he became more and more reminiscent of a gorilla. Detachment and despondency overwhelmed. I was lost, questioning the humor my jokes, the merit of my story telling and most of all, the accuracy of my grammar.

I was having a meat life crisis.

Drastic decisions loomed large on the horizon. Do I quit the meat log blog and retreat to a reclusive life? Do I end it all in a blaze of artery wrecking glory? Do I spring for a convertible? All scenarios seemed like realistic options. Just as I was pulling out and dusting off the ol' roulette-wheel-of-sporadic-life-choices my parents burst in, bellowing out their collective voice of reason. They could see the desperation in my eyes and smell the indecisive stench that leaked from my pores. They knew just what to do. My dad had lived through a similar episode and for his, like mine, barbecue was the only viable cure. My parents sprung me from the clutches of my oppressive back-shackled monkey with a short walk to Rainin' Ribs and a mammoth sandwich known in folklore legend as the Big Daddy. A bun piled high with coleslaw, pulled pork, hot links and taste bud tingling "voodoo sauce" brought me back from the brink.

I was rejuvenated, reborn. The magical powers of pulled pork and hot links gave me a new lease on life. My zest for all things Meat Log Blog has been redoubled and I can smell greatness in the air. The first 40 were a warm up; the next 40 will really be a show.


Meat life crises are a serious yet treatable event. If you or a loved one are facing any of these symptoms call tool free at 1(888) HLP-MEAT for anonymous help and guidance from trained professionals.

Imeatation - Not The Most Sincere Form Of Flattery

Frightened Public:

I write to you today with a message of the upmost importance for those concerned with living a healthy life. Soytainly by now you have all heard about Textured Vegetable Protein (TVP) – street names – The Devil’s Hambone, Supper Surprise, Mouth Meth, Tummy Tinglers, Meat Analogue, Soy. This hazardous new chemical has invaded our nation’s kitchens and is eating away at the stomachs and minds of America’s best and brightest. Doctors from across the nation and around the world are running tests and sprinting through evaluations in hopes of determining the true repercussions of this risky new ‘food’. But, while other physicians slave away in the lab, this meatical doctor is prone to publish the facts in their current form. The taste bud torture must end.

Soy, unlike authentic unadulterated meat, does not contain enough saturated fat to be good for you. Saturated fats help to toughen up your heart, making you better prepared to face the emotional grind of everyday life. Without fatty fats, you run the risk of becoming weak, complacent and a total wussy. Worse yet, TVP tricks the neurons in your soyrebrum causing your brain to think that it is receiving all the much need endorphins, serotonin and pleasure enhancers that are found in meat. This can lead to dangerous depletion. A diet devoid of true sustenance and jam-packed with mock meat will lead to emotional breakdowns. That’s a fact. Lastly, and this fact will be especially horrifying for all the animal rights activists in the audience, soy tastes offensive. That alone is not the appalling aspect although, for food lovers like myself, it needs to be considered. The shocking truth is that in order for TVP to obtain a palatable taste, reminiscent meat’s explosive flavor, hundreds of live animals must be squished into a fine dust. Animals are shoveled into a machine resembling a trash compactor; the output from this abhorred contraption is then mixed in with Soy, creating a marketable imeatatation. The truth hurts, the truth shocks, but the truth has an undeniable importance.

Fauxcus on what I am saying, be an informed eater, and don’t let imeatation seep into your diet.