From Memory Lane to Infinite and Beyond

Hello Meat Log Blog readers and misguided Internet surfers alike,

I write to you today as a shiny new version of the Meatical Doctor you all know and put up with. My brain is larger now. I have the diploma to prove it. I am officially certified to be a walking and talking adult in the real world.

Through the imitation fire-walk known as commencement, I learned of the monotony of mature life. Gonzaga drilled home its final message of patients, but as each first, middle and last name was bellowed into the microphone, my hallow stomach further contracted. While Thayne McColluh lectured me about lighting fires and his lack of upper body strength in high school, my mind wandered. Weak with hunger and weighed down by looming adulthood, my brain retreated to the comfortable realm of culinary daydreams.

I thought back to my encounter with Domini’s Sandwiches… The meat phone rang, I answered. A velvety voice spoke softly. She spoke of fine meats, hearty cheeses, and east coast charm sandwiched between doughy bread.

It had to be true love; I felt it from the first time she murmured “fresh sliced deli meat”. So I ventured out, away from the nest and straight into the rugged streets of Spokane. I fought, hugged, bargained, murdered, and cried my way through tough avenues until I made it to Wall and Sprague. My pilgrimage landed me mouth to sandwich with a portion of corned beef that may have just been an entire cow finely sliced. I chomped, chewed, and digested, but despite my best efforts, the sandwich won. The mammoth sandwich domeatnated my stomach, banishing me to a cozy culinary coma.

I snapped back to reality, oh there goes my sanity. A steady stream of names dominates the room. I make a hasty escape back to the comfort of warm memories.

Within the confines of my memory bank, I remember the Milk Bottle. Shaun, my tall former roommate, demanded that our motley crew of misfit roommates enjoy one last meal together, a final supper of sorts just with less wine and crucifixion. Shaun settled upon the Milk Bottle as the restaurant of choice. We obliged. The Milk Bottle, as the name explicitly implies, is shaped like a giant milk bottle. I was of course initially turned off by the idea of dairy shaped structure, given that I have met people who are lactose intolerant. But, once I gave the Milk Bottle’s burger and fries a try, I was convinced to excuse the lactose insensitive architecture. The Burger and fries were scrumptious, leaving me satisfied and pacified.

Back in the uncomfortable present, I was anything but satisfied. My hunger pangs were growing fangs as the onslaught of names continued to douse the audience.

To escape agony I dove into the ooey gooey center of my Spokane food world. I road my train of thought up Division Street to Calico Kitchen and then back down the other way so that I could stop by Bangkok Thai.

As I entered Calico an overworked waitress offered up a hospitable hello. Her greeting glazed over me as my attention was elsewhere. My focus was locked on the hot sauce wall, as I walked past, my taste buds beamed out “HELLO, we’ve missed you!” while my intestines offered up a more skeptic glare. I settled into a booth as the same friendly waitress from before poured me a splash of coffee to go with my sugar and cream. After careful deliberation, I followed my gut cowboy instincts and ordered the western burger. Piled high with BBQ sauce and onion rings and paired with a plethora of peppery dressings, the western burger produced a flavorable outcome.

Bangkok has been my Taiwanese godmother during my time at Gonzaga. She took me in from the start; fed me curries and dishes that rhymed with Thad, and always gave me a student discount. Her cooking was always meatvelous but it was the atmosphere she provided that made her what she is. Under her watchful gaze I changed acquaintances into dear friends and for this, I truly thank her. But my praise and admiration does not end with Bangkok Thai, it extends out to all the Spokane restaurants mentioned previously on this silly blog and, most importantly, to the friends who have made the past four years at Gonzaga University meatgical.

As my emotions began to well up, the monotonous stream of names seeped back into my consciousness. It also brought back with it my now horrifying hunger. I was turning ravenous. Fortunately, my program alerted me that the ending was near. Like an ADHD addled youth I sat fidgety and antsy, counting the seconds before I could turn my daydreams into tangible realities.

As I write to you today, I can assure you that my stomach did not implode during commencement. My mother had wisely packed a packet of peanut M & M’s in her purse, which sufficed to hold me over before I could find more sizeable sustenance. I am also pleased to let you know that with commencement in the rearview, I can commence my regularly scheduled posts. Talk to you next week. Roll Zags.