not falling down

This is mostly for my own records. The correct way to rejuvenate your roommate’s leftover half-steak (kept in a Ziploc container overnight) is as follows: slice thin and put it back in the container, splash a little balsamic vinegar and olive oil on it, seal the lid and shake around to coat. Let marinate for ten minutes. Dump on a piece of foil and broil in the toaster oven for a couple minutes more. Sandwich with farmer’s market lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise between halves of crusty roll from the bakery down the street. Ride the flavor horns.

What you have to understand about the Burger King Loaded Steakburger is that I had no choice in the matter. The moment I spied it billboardwise, during the long drive west, I was gripped by the same potent mixture of revulsion and lust that came upon me once in college, when Jon and I first saw the commercial for the Bacon Club Chalupa. We turned to each other, then, eyes wide and desperate, like two men drowning who each believe the other can swim.

Neither could.

So it was only a matter of time before I ran out of excuses for not planting this particular meatbomb in my face. Leaving the drive-thru not ten minutes ago, I left steering to my nervous left hand while my right fumbled through wrappers. The first thing I saw was the edge of the patty, protruding a full inch beyond the hapless bun like a beckoning pseudopod; the second was the utter absence of traditional dressing. There is no pickle here, no tomato. The bastards have delivered a sullen daub of gray potato and onion shards instead, and they have somehow transmuted lettuce to bacon. The rites involved are none I care to imagine.

The sandwich is not good. I stress this even in the full knowledge that it will accomplish nothing; those who weren’t going to eat it won’t, and the rest of you will have no more agency than I did. But like any Lovecraftian narrator, I am bound to commit these desperate words by sheer force of narrative. I must write of its taste, like barbecue Spam fried in motor oil. I must write of its texture, which is also like barbecue Spam fried in motor oil. I must tell you how it sits in my stomach e’en now, heavily roiled, plotting its course downward with the slow cunning of a brain-damaged tiger on spelunk.

Taco Bell recently reintroduced the Bacon Club Chalupa. Should I even have time to post this missive, I cannot imagine that I will outlive it long. The end is near. I hear a noise at the door, as of some crispy flatbread, sliding deep-fried fingers up to caress the latch.

Hillary has pretty much the best title ever for her personal journal, but today I’m plugging her food blog, Kimchi for Beginners. It meets the Gramazio-Richardson test of always making me hungry, except it doesn’t have recipes. Not that I make the recipes in Leonard’s or Holly’s blogs nearly as often as I want to.

What Hillary’s blog does have is the clever thing where it sneaks in glances at Korean culture from a unique perspective. I wish I’d been anywhere near as responsible a documentarian on my two international trips. Maybe I should try living in Canada? I understand they do startling things with ketchup and mayonnaise.

After a TV show about Edwardian cuisine, the household tonight spent twenty minutes in goggling horror at the idea of a duck press. Here is what a duck press is used for: squishing a duck so hard that all the blood comes out. That’s it! Apparently they were later bastardized into lobster presses (do lobsters have blood? I thought they were insects) and now duck presses cost thousands of dollars and are impossible to find.

But the ones you can find have little webbed feet.

Ride the flavor horns. Dammit! I knew there was a better joke than the “hyperspace” thing in the last entry, I just couldn’t get the bat off my shoulder. Oh well. There’s always next year.

Thanks to all the people who have offered further sandwich suggestions in the comments. More! More! I should clarify that I am quite familiar with the unholy power of bacon, but will generally not eat sharp or nontoasted cheese.

I spent three years working at Trover and bringing my lunch in a plastic bag. These lunches invariably contained sandwiches on whole-wheat bread, and though I went through phases regarding the filling (tuna, peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and pickle), I generally came back to slices of turkey, on romaine lettuce or “spring mix,” with mayonnaise.

Now, I started working from home every day nine months ago, leaving me a bit at a loss. The constraints on my lunch (must tolerate refrigeration, must fit into reusable containers, must be edible on a half-hour break) were suddenly removed, but I continued to act as if they were still in place. I put things on a plate and I sliced up the apple.

Then I moved to London and found analogs to the American lunch ingredients, and still kept eating the same lunch. Admittedly, some of this was a comfort-familiarity ritual, but I’m past that now and it’s about time lunch and I started mixing it up.

To wit: this week I bought some French bread, and salami, and a tomato. I have blown my own mind. I am tossed amidst the shattering waves like driftwood in the brainstorms this has unleashed! On the ocean, I guess! In the metaphor!

So salami and turkey taste good together, especially on crusty bread. Would you like me to share with you some of the other revolutionary sandwich innovations/relevations? Innelvations? Revolevinnotrons.

• Using pepperoni instead of salami
• Toasting the bread
• Cutting it in half, for greater ease of gripping
• Cutting it in half diagonally
• Maybe get that lettuce with shredded carrots
• Shit, I know this is crazy
• Just hang on
• We are going into flavor hyperspace

Of course these sandwiches are not as healthy as the more fibrous, less-sausaged original version. There is a price to pay for joy, my friends, and that price is paid in belt loops. I’m never going back. Those who say you can enjoy food and lose weight are chasing a fool’s dream, and anyone who acts like they aren’t is profiting by it.

I made empanadas! They looked like regurgitated horseshoe crabs. They tasted pretty good!

Holly launched her food blog! Yay! You have to understand that these aren’t fake foods covered in shellac and developing fluid: these are real things that I get to help eat. That alone, so far, has been worth the trip.

Of course, now it’s my night to cook and I am experiencing more stage fright than ever did on an actual stage. It’s not as if I’m trying to live up to the house standard. I just want to avoid the part of The Birdcage where they all take one sip in unison and then quietly, carefully, put their spoons back down.

The Mayan Gypsy is back!

This is mostly for my own future reference, but the apples I found labelled “Mountaineer” at Whole Foods are just slightly superior to Fujis in every way. A little more tart and crisper, with thicker skin, less wax and a better texture. They asymptotically approach the quality of apples from my grandmother’s orchard, which is probably the best any commercial apple is going to do. Unfortunately, they seem to be available only in season, so it looks like I’ll be back to eating Fujis (which are, to be fair, far superior to any other cultivar) in a month.

Data point: since I started eating roughly four to five apples a week–something like a year and a half ago–I have not been sick. Magic? Or coincidence?