It could be...It might be...
Baseball season is upon us. While that might put some of you to sleep, it startles me awake like a cold nose of a certain husky/shepherd mix burrowing under the covers at 5:45 in the morning, snorting, “Hey, fatty! Where’s my Iams?” Baseball crackles springtime from an AM radio on a neighbor’s deck, and it’s freaking fantastic.
I was a bad baseball player. I mean, I sucked. I was the big kid whom everyone though could hit it out of the park at will. And I used to get a lot of hits in practice. But as soon as the ump said, “Play ball,” I crapped the bed.
So on the rare occasion when I hit a home run, I like to holler about it. This was a homer:
Sunday evening, I stepped to the plate the way I always do: distracted. Girls at ball games distract me, and there were four babes watching me. Also, I had quite a few screwdrivers in me. Hey, I bat better when I’ve had a few drinks.
So, with dinner on the mound, I stepped up. The first pitch: waffles. It was a strike, but I didn’t swing. It wasn’t the pitch I wanted. Yes, I love waffles. But I didn’t want to swing at waffles. I was waiting. Ok, that’s a lie: I wanted to swing at waffles, I just didn’t see them coming.
The next pitch was pizza. Way outside. I was broke. So the count went to 1-1.
I stepped out of the batter’s box and looked for my sign. Coach Smirnoff touched his nose-cheek-nose-forehead-nose-right ear-butt-chest-belt. Belt means bunt. Belt always means bunt. Since Abner Doubleday stole the game and took credit for it, belt has meant bunt. I stepped back into the box.
I squared around to bunt, which always terrified me. Crushed knuckles were a possibility; crushed nuts were, too. The pitch was a big ass bowl of Apple Jacks. That’s not a bad pitch, but I pulled back. Not what I was looking for. Any other night, maybe, but not for Sunday dinner. So the count is 2 balls, 1 strike.
I dug in again, and sho’ nuff: waffles! This time with eggs and delicious Farmland bacon! I swung and missed. I think I closed my eyes. Either way, I missed. I think it was the eggs screaming, “hey batta batta batta batta” that threw me. Eggs can chatter.
So, two balls, two strikes. The pitch: waffles again, but this time with pulled pork. You could hear the crack of the bat a mile away. That sucker was outta here.
Batting 8th, number...is that a chef jacket? What the...? Anyway, batting 8th, Chinny McSyrup
I didn’t get all of it. The waffles were Bisquick, so they were just good enough. Not as much flavor as a true waffle-lover’s waffle should have. And the pork was just a pound or so of utility pork (Not sauced yet, didn’t try real hard when I smoked it) vacuum packed in the freezer. But together, with a spot of Slabs sauce on the meat and a generous drizzle of black walnut syrup from Peter’s Market, they had just enough power to clear the fence.
It made sense: our pork is sweet, and chicken and waffles is a classic soul dish, so why not? I’m telling you, it was damned good, people. Take a swing at it.