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.

Olive Branch or Bacon Taco?

A youthful God shouted 10 heavenly commandments down the slopes of Mount Sinai to an eagerly awaiting Moses. Moses took this handful of holy directions and disseminated them among the people of earth but it seems we may not have taken them to heart.

Earlier this week a somewhat frazzled God revealed one succinct message to me. God told me to be a vessel for peace in the world. This devout memo could mean only one thing; God needed me to perfect the bacon breakfast taco. The pressure was immense and my nerves were wound tight but I knew I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let the big man upstairs down. I also knew that despite my extensive meatical knowledge, I would need help. I picked up the meat phone and called together my A(pplewood smoked bacon) Team. Richard Griddlesizzle, Mary “NotMatt” LeBlanc and the angelic tigress, Sunshine Lyon, came running. With the super squad assembled and ingredients at the ready we set about fabricating a breakfast taco so great that global harmony would be an inevitable output.

As all positive change seems to begin, we started by frying copious amounts of bacon.

While Griddlesizzle monitored our precious pork, Sunshine Lyon took to finely dicing red onions, tomatoes, cilantro, jalapeños and avocado. Sunshine folded secret spices into her chopped vegetable medley, creating a pico de gallo that brought a subtle grin to our watchful God’s holy face. With pico de galloed, bacon singing sweetly and Mary “NotMatt” LeBlanc emanating positive vibes, we moved on to crafting a succulent sour cream sauce. Sunshine Lyon was feeling confident and took the lead. She melded cilantro, lime blood, avocado, hot sauce, angel tears and the most sour of cream into a concoction worthy of being served at the last supper. All that was left was to assemble the bacon taco and to turn raw eggs in a yum-yum scramble. Richard and I took to weaving bacon while Sunshine and “NotMatt” LeBlanc tackled the scrambling process. All the elements were complete. All the elements were beautiful. I took the bacon shell and with the touch of an angel I deftly stocked it first with sour cream sauce, followed quickly by pico and eggs.  I stepped back and admired the team’s work. A tear began to well up in the corner of my eye. We had done it. Yahweh’s approving energy beamed down at us.

I could feel peace spreading and I hadn’t even taken my first bite. As fork approached mouth global tranquility was a buzz in the atmosphere. Flavor and serenity exploded on contact. If you don’t believe me, if you think that a bacon breakfast taco could never truly bring about world peace, just look at the facts.  A handful of days ago, in an act of peace taco anticipation, Iran democratically elected a moderate president. Then, yesterday, the United States Supreme Court deemed the Defense of Marriage Act unconstitutional. Peace is spreading; you just wait. The bacon breakfast taco heals all wounds. The bacon breakfast taco is the olive branch's pumped up cousin.

Peace, Love and Bacon.

Free Food! Free Food!

Food has been locked up. She sits barricaded behind pressure sealed plastic, sturdy restaurant doors and locked freezers. As I peer in at her she gazes back with sad longing eyes. She and I are meant to be together but money keeps me at arms length. The cash register patrols the parapet, only granting access to those who have an in with U.S. currency. I sit on the outside; empty pocketed, empty stomached and heavy hearted. Food has been wrongly imprisoned for my darling has done nothing wrong. Her captivity is cruel and unusual punishment for her as well as I. My nerves and frustration were at a tipping point when I took to the streets, chanting irrepressibly “Free Food! Free Food!” My anguished pleas thankfully garnered a response from the warden. The desperation in my voice tugged at his stomach strings and he conceded to let my darling food take day trips to see me; free of her normal financial confines. At my first conjugal visit with free food she came dressed in neat Gourmondo wrapping. At first I merely stared at her, dumbfounded to finally be seeing food free of her normal monetary cage. But after my initial daze wore off I pulled her close to me, pealed back her tidy exterior and took to worshipping every last morsel of her. Unfortunately our time together was brief; leaving me unsatisfied, grasping for my next fix of her. Relief came only days later and this time dearest food came to me clad in Pad Thai. Unshackled and uninhibited she thrilled me with her exotic zest. Our visit was once again brief but the heat from her embrace lingered as a pleasant reminder. In our most recent moneyless rendezvous my sweetie pie’s pizza pie ensemble aroused Italian fervor that had long been repressed. Alimenti, il mio cuore batte per te.

A Feast From The East

Greetings, My Little Meat Minions, let's get into it. 

Ali Hobson traveled by metal bird from the far off land of New York City. She landed amongst the forestry and liberal mindset that defines the upper left corner of the continental United States. She was disoriented and a wee bit scared but she had a trick up her sleeve. For you see, Ali Hobson is a mystical meat magician.

My lady homie, Mad Dog Maddie Weber, first swept Ali into my life. The pair, who had become acquainted during high school, decided to reunite their camaraderie in the city that I call home. When I first met Ali, or Alibaba as her magician friends call her, she seemed like a normal muggle to me. It was not until her last night in town, while down at Richard Goodfellow’s shire, that she revealed to me her true identity. On the plateFULL night of her grand unveiling it was just me, Mad Dog Maddie, HairMaster Seth, Guru Andrew and of course, Richard Goodfellow. As we assembled we spit and spat about this and that until Ali gathered our motley crew tight around her and spoke in hush tones. She told us of her culinary shamanism and a devious plan to leave our taste buds tongue-tied. We gathered ingredients and like an army of kitchen minions, we began the preparation process. With pepper jack, onions, red peppers and glorious bacon all sliced and diced, Alibaba waved her hand, effortlessly intertwining everything in a big bowl o’ beef. She conjured beer battered onion rings, commanded obliging eggs to fry and with a delicate sleight of ham, made maple bacon materialize. With stuffed burgers sizzlin’ and toasted buns properly sauced, Alibaba joined everything in an unholy matrimony. What would follow can only be described as gentlemanly carnage. HairMaster, Goodfellow, Guru and myself descended upon the sorceress’ creation with precision and childlike glee. It was messy, meaty and gone in a matter of seconds.

With Alibaba’s powers expunged for the night and the stomachs of four fine hombres still gurgling, I set about prescribing meaticine. First, after hot oil had done its part, we let battered onions take shelter in our stomachs.

But with stubborn hunger still lingering I was forced to resort to more drastic meatsures. I called the spare maple bacon that was lying idle on the sideline into the game. I coated the bacon in beer batter and sent it head first into the bubbling broth of glorious grease. Minutes later our eager mouths were sated by crispy crunchy goodness.

The finale to our whirlwind night nearly brought me to tears.

I took the last morsel of stuffed burger, coated it in batter, and then fried the bageebies out of it.

The result was divine and like a pack of wolves on a fresh carcass we ferociously tore the heavenly deep fried burger to pieces. As I licked my lips and surveyed the room, I could tell everyone’s tank was full. Hunger was thoroughly defeated.

Thank you Alibaba, your meatgic is welcome back anytime.

Biblical Rewrite: Cain and Abel

The rain in Spain may very well have fallen mainly on the plain but in the Fertile Crescent the rain fell in vain and led to the downfall of the one named Cain.


Adam and Eve, banished from the pimp pad of paradise (by fruit nonetheless!), stumbled out into a damp expansiveness. Awakened to the world and a tingling in their nether-regions, they did what all good humans have learned to do and had intercourse. Their beast with two backs produced a pair; Cain was first, chased by Abel. Cain took to the earth, producing produce. Abel, a man of a more mature palate, choose to herd. Together the pair could have prepared a killer (foreshadowing!) meal but like many brothers, they fought. Making matters worse, the duo and their nudist parents were among the few inhabitants our fine planet. Sibling rivalries, like delusional voices, only seem to get worse in isolation, so as their bodies grew, so too did the feuding. Adding to the rivalry was desperate competition for the affection and attention of their distracted, newly sexualized, parents. The best way for the bickery brothers to gain attention was through cuisine, (Adam and Eve were total foodies). As a result, both worked tirelessly perfecting their professions, spending long hours in the field and pasture. This provided ample alone time. Abel dealt with his solitary by humming some of the world's first music and with Game Boy Color. Cain passed the time by going crazy. Cain had inner demons; he was, by modern medical standards, a psychopath. His psychoses led to a diminished capacity for remorse, poor behavioral controls and nagging insight from people who weren't really there.

One day, while Cain and Abel sat silently on the floor of their parents' poorly built hut, Cain heard a voice that Abel could also hear. It was the big man upstairs, G. O. D. He told them each to offer up a sacrifice. Cain, who had plenty of other voices to worry about, thought little of the request. His brother on the other hand, took the holy demand with the utmost seriousness. While Abel got to preparing an immaculate sacrificial lamb chop for Yahweh, Cain got to composing an impeccable veggie feast for his parents; burning some loose straw to appease Jehovah. Cain's dinner was magnificent (in the vegetable sense of the word) but it was lost upon his parents who were distracted, doting on God's newest bff, Abel. Cain was enraged and with the backing of 13 invented allies, he decided to murder his little brother.

That night, while Abel slept, Cain crept. Cain went to Abel's bedside, pinned him down and suffocated his brother with an apple a snake had given him earlier that week. Abel died at the age of 33. His murder deprived the world many advances to the shepherdial arts, cut short what was sure to be a biblical music career and, much to Cain's dismay, brought God and Abel even closer.

R.I.P. Abel
Your lamb chops were da bomb.