BuffaWoah!!!!!

'ello comRADs, please allow me to tell you a story.

While I meatandered through Fred Meyer's deli isle I stumbled upon a staple point of American development. While I stared at my eventual dinner, my mind wandered to a time of wagon wheels, cholera and a relentless westward trail. Mighty buffalo grazed aimlessly through my Oregon bound imagination until a careless cart-wielder bumped me back into a prepackaged reality. Right there, arms reach away, were neatly parceled portions of the Great American Buffalo. With my uncalloused hands I procured a proper serving, placing it gently in my grocery wagon. Despite my reliance on modern conveniences, there is something less than satisfying about the ease with which we purchase our food. The thrill of the hunt has become a bit lost on us...

Nonetheless, I drove home. The average covered wagon covered a bit less than 9 miles in a day; I went close to 4 miles in less than 10 minutes. My how times have changed, yet one constant holds true. Buffalo meat tastes ameatzing, thus, for your sake, I must return to my story. 

With my hunting and gathering effortlessly completed, I set about rendering a fine fire using only my primitive tools. Surprisingly, instant light BBQ coals really do work and within no time I had a first-rate cooking area prepared. With my buffalo expertly marimeated and still no sign of cholera, I commenced the positioning ceremony. In barbecuing, as in real estate and body hair, location is everything. 

Your pesky peepers may be asking, "Gary Mustard! What are those strange orbs rainbowing around that succulent hunk of buffalo?" Well, Nosey Nancy, those are the perfect accompaniment to the predominant meat of the Wild West. Street Name: White Mushrooms. I allowed the tandem to grill in peace until the time was just right. Then, with the swiftness of the common cold in daycare, I plated my dinner. With a tall glass of milk, plenty of sunlight and absolutely no fear of attack, my dinner was ready for my enjoyment, and, although I may have feasted with the furry of a weary trail traveler, the thrill of adventure seemed to be missing from my Wild West banquet... 

Bonus Image!

Feasting Like It's 1092

It's true what the Vikings say. Rape and pillage really do take it out of you. And even though I may not have ever done any literal raping or pillaging in my life, I still sometimes find it appropriate to reward myself in true Viking fashion. 

While scavenging for food in the forest of Fred Meyer I spied the hearty hocks of a full grown turkey.

I hastily procured the turkey meat and brought it home to my castle for pepperaration. Upon arrival at my dwelling I was greeted by my brethren, William The Brute. He was in the mood for feast, much wine, and fine wenches. We dressed our bird in the Far East's most exotic spices and then placed it in my fire box for precise cooking. Three hours and many wines later, the feast was ready to commence. The barbaric meatsacre that followed is best described through digital drawing, so without further adieu, I present to you photographic proof of the most savage meal of my life. 

P.S. I violently vomited up a horrific combination of Turkey and Wine later that night. 

Note to self: Drink less wine. Eat more turkey.

Let The Flames Begin

No matter rain, shine, or bacon brine, meat blog friends, it's barbecue time!

Open season on seasoned meat has officially begun and I'm just so gosh darn excited I can barely hide it. I was so jazzed that after breaking a bottle of fine champagne on the side of my Weber Grill I proceeded to christen it with a shish-load of kabobs.

The key to killer kabobs is all in the composition. With the shish, willy-nilly preparation will only lead you to undesirable results. So, with the exacting skill of a Jedi on Adderall I perfectly parceled out ingredients.

Then, combining the touch of a masseur and the precision of a surgeon I meaticulously ordered my ingredients. Each new addition to my totem poles of shish amplified the ideal interplay of pineapple, mushrooms, green peppers and steak.

With my majestic skewers properly prepared and the barbecue preheated to flaming hot it was time to lay down the law. One by one I delicately positioned kabobs in their appropriate resting place.

With all my kabobs in a row, I was left to play the waiting game. Calm, unfidgety, patients has never being my strong suite, thus I turned to modeling.

Like clockwork, as our photo shot was nearing completion, so too were the precious kabobs. With the gold medal for Olympic Waiting hanging effortlessly around my neck and a belly full of excitement I ravenously attacked my creation. Victory may be sweet but Shish Kabobs are juicier.

Until next time, I'm transforming my house into the BBHQ (aka The Barbecue Headquarters) and I'm beginning production on the world's first rhubarbeque pie. Catch y'all on the flip side of the burger.