The goin' gets weird...
It’s just been a really weird couple weeks. Weird-good. Weird like Dr. Raoul Duke would approve of, at least if we had more illicit substances instead of all the food and beer.
Here’s what’s been going on. I’d post pics, but I’m not that advanced. And you know, if someone takes your picture, they steal your soul.
So, the sports weekend. Thursday at the Brewers-Cardinals game. We’ve been over that. Except I forgot to mention – there were no chili cheese anythings. I’m sorry, but this is 2006. Every sports venue must have chili cheese thingies. I’d prefer tots, but I’ll take fries. Tater tots, not small children tots, which everyone knows are too stringy.
That Saturday we were at the Kansas Speedway for Busch Race, cooking and catching tires for our friends at Jay Robinson Racing. The brisket was good, the cheesy corn was good, whatever Brett and Kent made was good, Kelly's cookies were damn good, and my ribs were spectacular. Why, I have no idea. I think it was less smoke (3 hours smoke on the Smith & Wesson, then wrapped with slightly spicy sauce cut with a lil’ bit of raspberry ). They were awesome. Even I ate some. And I’ll never be able to cook them like that again.
As for the race itself, Denny Hamlin, welcome to my shit list. Not only did you take out KC’s own Jennifer Jo Cobb, but she was driving the #49 Ford. She was driving Jay Robinson’s car. She was driving our car. We were catching tires. I had my damn gloves on. My red & black mechanic’s gloves. Well-worn, stinking with the sweet stench of fence posts, forty-weight, yard beer, freshly-hewn oak and barbecue sauce. I was ready. We were ready. But “ya can’t fix stupid.”
Sunday was the Chiefs-49ers game at Arrowhead. We did fajitas, sort of. Closer to Applebee’s than anything you’d find in Mexico. Actually, I don’t know if fajitas are remotely Mexican. They were probably invented by Bobby Flay or some other schef-schmuck claiming to be "authentic." Anyway, what stood out with the Flayjitas was the flat iron steaks I grilled. First time I ever bought that cut. Freakin’ fabulous. Wow. I know I’ll pick them over a filet, and (blasphemy) I’ll probably choose flat irons over KC strips, too. They were that good. From HyVee, of course.
Those three events over four days, from the adequate pulled pork, cheap beer and bad hot dogs of Busch Stadium, to the fantastic ribs and busted up car at the speedway, to the flat iron steak so good that I finally understand vampires, was the kind of weekend I’d have wet myself to experience not long ago. But I tore right through it, baby. And it was only the beginning: last weekend was the American Royal.
(The flat iron steak comes from the cow’s neck. Where vampires bite. Never mind.)