Archives for posts with tag: bbq

Dear friend Alexandria came for a weekend of sunshine and friendship (and to escape from the snows of Colorado) so of course to celebrate we had to eat horribly. Grilled PB & J’s, taco trips, drive throughs (MacD’s for Alex, Starbs for Anne), brownies and ice cream (the only good thing in our caf is Ben & Jerry’s, thus we’ve tried almost every flavor- Whirled Peace is the favorite), and as a last Sunday night hurrah, Sonny’s BBQ. Alex tried to get us to go to Sonny’s for an entire semester, without success. Finally, I’ve been to the temple of smoky pork and sweet cornbread she’s been raving about. Correctly fearing colossal portions, we split a meal (much to the disbelief of our waitress) which consisted of a mound of pulled pork, slices of brisket, a baseball sized dollop of Velveeta Mac (I did not partake. Sorry, cheese should require refrigeration), a bowl of pork-spotted mapley baked beans (this, on the other hand, I can love), and two little loaves of cakey cornbread. Alex was right. It was dang good. (Despite its not-so-photogenic-ness.)

So post-BBQ-tacos-ice cream, one must cleanse. Enter: brussel sprouts. “You’re the only person I know who likes those…” said roommate Destiny. What? Why is everyone a brussel-hater? Those things are good. Barbie-sized cabbage! Browned in your Christmas cast-iron skillet with a ton of red pepper? Yeah. Yes.

I just got a big box from Idaho full of un-packed presents that I got to joyfully re-open…thrilling. Trader Joe’s pasta and cookies, jars of spicy sauces from Morocco and Georgia, a bag bulging with Russian candies, the cast-iron skillet, Market Spice tea and paprikas, and my beloved egg poaching pan. (And Tibetan prayer flags so I can have a true college dorm.) And…the loveliest bit…a tiny Le Creuset pie pan. Can’t resist it, had to make a mini pie. Apple, strawberry, blueberry pie. With a lattice top because we all know procrastination breeds productivity and pie making > philosophy homework.

P.S. New photos of a protest for fair food!


Fourth of July = Massive Overeat. How could one possibly resist literally falling off the bone ribs, cedar plank chicken, watermelon laden fruit salad, sausage spotted pasta salad, baconey potato salad, sweet sun-yellow corn, and a smattering of summer berry pies? And why would anyone resist really? Somehow got lucky enough to not work on the fourth, so drove on home then down to family friend Dave’s house on the Clearwater. Good to be home, even better to be home and stuffing my fat little face. Dave is an excellent cook, and in particular the master of the cedar plank. First cedar plank experience was roasted goat for New Years. Real good. And it’s only gotten better. Indubitably the best ribs I’ve ever had. Some secret barbeque sauce + plank + low n’ slow heat = oh heaven and a┬ámessy face. (and the olives. Have I already rambled about THE olives? I’m a big olive-eater. I like ’em all, from wrinkly kalamatas to the giant juicy green ones to the sliced black canned variety, but Dave’s homemade olives are something else. Not salty. Nope. Vinegary like crazy. And SO good. Camie and I are obsessed, thankfully no one else is quite as infatuated and we can just huddle over the jar like selfish little creatures. Dave let me take the last jar, it was like Christmas.)

(There’s Tucker, who can’t resist licking the meaty, barbequey plank, even though he’s burning the crap out of this little tongue.)

Everything else in the potluck sorta deal was tasty in its Americana glory as well, but I was sort of very distracted by my plate of ribs. (And second plate, which once empty I quickly hid then denied its existence.) Then, friends, a coconut cake. Which I never would have imagined I would like/love, but it was just gloriously light and sweet and scrumptious. Jess and little far-too-clever-to-be-only-seven Hayden made the praised cake, decorated with American flag fruit, as you do. And then a strawberry pie as well, just in case we weren’t quite stuffed enough. Which went a little like this: buttery pie crust, cream cheesy stuff, sugary strawberries. Mhhm, yep, ok then. 5,000 calories and much joy later, we decided the best thing to do was probably jump into the negative 200 degree river and float around for a bit. And after that we felt we’d earned s’mores, and thus commenced the sitting around the fire, frantically blowing out ignited marshmallows, getting sticky hands and sticky, smiley faces, listening to Dad (also known as PopPop) and Lex playing Steve Earle songs, and feeling very content and I guess pretty American.

Ribity ribs. Very seriously falling off the bone. I feel sad now writing about it because there is no rib meat in my mouth or hands or anywhere near me.

Chicken, baked beans, potato sal, pasta sal, fruit sal, RIBS. Not pictured, the sweetest corn ever. Which became corn and black bean and a bunch of other stuff salad the next day.

Piglet! Happy little piglet.

And though I thought I would never have to eat again, the next morning I managed to wolf down about fifteen pumpkin pancakes. Which I had never encountered before, but have adopted as my new favorite thing in the whole wide world of breakfast.

Is this not the rockin-est spot on the whole earth? I don’t know why exactly, but a good Fourth of July requires close proximity to a body of water. Strangely one of my most fun Fourths was in Bermuda, eating Portuguese doughnuts at an old British port. Not so American, good nonetheless.

Dad and I, post schnib-stealing. (Schnib = tasty little meat morsels scavenged before dinner. Extra rib bits, burnt little pieces of chicken. Mmm.)