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 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.
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.
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