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.