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.

Debauchery At Dawn, Depravity At Dusk

My dear readers, I am back but only briefly. I write to you tonight with brevity on the brain. My succinctness is not out of a lack of content but rather as an attempt to not horrify you to the point of eternal meat log blog abandonment. On that note, lets begin this petrifying synopsis. 

Myself, and my iron stomach, endured the majestic terrors of the Sasquatch Music Festival this past weekend. 

We road out Friday morn with cars packed full of humans, hot dogs, alcohol, and misguided condiments. We road with confidence and giddy but I sensed an insecurity in the pit of my stomach. My stomach knew, even if my ambitious brain did not yet fully acknowledge it, that this would be a trying weekend.

With camp assembled and the sights and sounds of Sasquatch beginning to blanketing my senses, we began our daily regiment: a strange cocktail of beer, dogs, liquor, and of course, mustard. Hot dogs and liquor are always a sinsational combination but when consumption is catapulted into a fanatical multi-day parade, they begin to take on an even more depraved disposition. 

After I smeared jam on my morning hot dog, cased it with a lunch of lil' smokies and chili, whilst balanced it all out with a healthy dose of alcohol; I could sense that I was living in the deep dark recesses of de-basement. Despite these nagging senses, it is hard to ignore the pedestrianism of perversion that engulfs Sasquatch. Thus I carried on, enjoying every second.

We left Tuesday morning with a far lighter carload, far less receptive eardrums, and far greater respect for the tenets of healthy living. But, before returning to the wholesome habits of daily life in the non-music festival world, I took one last cheap shot at my tortured stomach. I demanded and delivered a half dozen of Jack In The Box's most substandard tacos directly to my now permanently damaged gut. 

Despite long-term gastrointestinal harm and liver malfunction, I don't regret a single bite or drink. My weekend was LegendGary and I will surely not full recuperate till it is time to do it all again in 12 months time.

I LOVE YOU 'SQUATCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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.

Apologies and Summaries and Beauties

My sweet readers, my dear friends, I apologize. I have left you out in the cold with no new meat log blog content for over a week. I hear that some of you are experiencing withdrawals, cold sweats, trouble sleeping, sporadic crying and even murderanger. All of these symptoms are my fault and as your favorite meatical doctor I feel horrible for such malfeasance. I promise, here and now, that I am going to alleviate your pain.

Apology: check.
Now on to the summary.

Since I last spewed out content for this beefy blog I have been on a tear (like a roll, not crying). I have bounced from one culinary delicacy to the next, yet nothing grabbed me by the stomach and demanded a story. But, as the onslaught of tummy ticklers piled up and your withdrawals intensified, I realized that action was necessary. Since I have no singular meatsterpiece, I find myself forced to present you with a hodgepodge collage of meatiocre content. I hope it suffices.

Let's begin this Meatgical Meatstery Tour on a sunny Thursday afternoon. Hunger had struck around 12:30; the beast known as lunch was upon me. As it wrestled with my stomach and sanity I sautéed mushrooms and onions. Pepper jack papers were sliced and jalapeños diced, but this was all merely the tip of the iceburger. While I labored, George Foreman prepared twin discs of beef. Seasons were applied and an egg was fried as I deviously devised. My Herculean colossus of a burger was there for the making. It was all so simple...

bun
(gary) Mustard & BBQ Sauce
spinach
Fried Egg
Jacked Pepper
BURGER
bun
sautéed shroom + onion
jalapeños

Jacked Pepper

BURGER

bum bun

or if you aren't a good reader, it looked like this:

and tasted like this:

Next story. My parents arrived in town on Friday. They had a mighty hankering to maintain comfortable living so we ate several meals together during their time in Spokane. I must confess in advance that did not take any pictures of any of the three meals we ate together, so, to illiterate readership, I apologize. (another apology!!) The first parentally paid for feast took place at Central Foods, where at I firmly planted a chicken pot pie in my potbelly. Stella, a sandwich shop for Spokane's hippest, served up the next installmeat of life sustaining manna. After surveying the menu I ventured a question to the bearded man behind the counter, "Which is better, the steak sandwich or the pulled pork?" to which he replied, "pork". I was convinced and once said sandwich was past tense, I thoroughly believed that he wasn't pulling my leg. I'm sorry, that was a lame one. (apology #3!!) And don't look now but I have transitioned to the third and final parental dining experience; hang in there my illiterate friends, more pictures will come soon. My time with my parents ended modestly. We said our goodbyes, safe drives, and I love yous over a simple meal at Sub Division. The meal was sub-perb and I could go into further detail but there really is no reason for me to sub-ject you to such monotonous drivel.

Now on to the Beauties, CAUTION: beauty is subjective. 

I hope this grab bag of miscellaneous meat is enough to temporarily quench your addictive appetite for carnivorous content. Take care my meat log blog junkies, I shall return soon.