Sunday night as I prepared to watch the emotional roller coaster that was the US vs Portugal match, I put down my burger spatula, picked up my wiener tongs (NOT to be confused with wiener tongues! Thank you spell check for helping me avoid some awkward page hits from folks looking for something a bit different) and grilled up some bräts.
Earlier this week I grilled a sriracha sauced up burger. The burger was not horrible, yet only earned a 4 out of 10 on my Soiled Burger Project taste scale. I lamented the “shoulda” and “coulda” things about said burger and planned to make it again with said changes at a later date. Well, that later date was Thursday and it was a complete and utter tasteless failure.
My plan on Tuesday was to get a nice long-ish (for me v.2014) ride in during Wifey’s day working from home. However that plan was–not so sadly–ruined by a series of ball rattling thunderstorms that rolled through Michiganderburgh. So I ran. OK, that’s a lie, I alternated running and walking on the treadmill for three miles. Then I made a hamburger on the grill for lunch and stoked my belly (the one I had just felt flopping from my waist like a flaccid penis for 35 minutes) with every calorie I had just burned and then some. Such is life… such is life as a cyclist who seems to ride less and less with each passing week, eats more and more with each passing day in the pursuit of a tastier burger and writes an almost certainly unread, pointless blog post series called the Soiled Burger Project… On, get this, A CYCLING blog! What the fuck?
Last week, I introduced The Soiled Burger Project; my attempt to up my burger grilling game. In my opinion, Burger 01 was a success to my ever growing belly and dulling taste buds.
I was set to continue the pointless, calorie rich project as the week went on, then I ran out of propane, then I was out-of-town for three days, but hey, I’m back in town now, with some fresh ‘pane and I’m set to continue on with Burger 02, a spicy, sriracha sauce tinged, hunk of ground meaty goodness on a bun. Or at least that’s what I had hoped.
So far this summer I have been struggling with my grilled hamburger skills. I’ve scoured the internet, flipped through magazines and even busted out some cookbooks looking for ideas, but so far, so not good. Everything has just been a bit bland. Hell, Wifey even recently declared that she’s “off burgers,” as she took a swig of Jack and threw the plate containing the half eaten burger against the wall, forcing me to tears (I made that up, Wifey doesn’t drink whiskey).
However, I am putting my early summer grill failures behind me and getting balls deep into trying to make a better, tastier hamburger all on my own (yes, I am aware that the use of the term “balls deep” may not be the way to start off a blog post about food. Sorry, it just worked).
Since my evening dinners will be void of grilled burgers until Wifey deems her palette ready for another go, I am resigned to working on building a better burger for my lunches. So after my ride today I set about making burger 01 of the Soiled Burger Project, an ongoing Cat 5 Cooking summer series devoted to my attempts to make what I believe is a better burger (welcome to the world of the unemployed). Your taste buds may differ, and yes, I am aware that referring to any food as “soiled” is not all that appetizing, I think we’ll all be OK…
The gun people have the NRA in their corner defending their right to blow big holes in things. Cigarettes have the tobacco industry and all those old smokers trying to look hip on ventilators in their corner. Sugar, which has come to be blamed for everything from childhood obesity, to Obamacare, to erectile dysfunction, has nearly the entire American food industry in its corner. And pasta? Well, pasta has me to champion how freaking good it is when eaten in moderation (although I prefer not to) and prepared with love (Note: please make a rainbow arc with your hands as you read the word love).
Pasta can warm the cockles of even the most staunch carb hater. Yeah, I’m looking at the Atkins people with their three meals a day of cheese & bacon but can’t walk up a flight of stairs and the ninety-nine dollars a pound, grass-fed, Cross-Fit doing, high horse riding Paleo people! Go ahead, hate on pasta! I’ll still be here eating it and loving it along with millions of Italians, the state of New Jersey and that hot Italian cook with the giant head on the Food Network. We be tight.
You might think that this is yet another installment of the super unpopular blog post series Crush Pasta (see Crush Pasta I and II), and it very well could be, but it’s not. This one’s about balls, as in meatballs.
It’s sort of funny [not really] that nearly all of my favorite meals look like something that was scraped off the piss smelling coat of a bum passed out in an alley after three bottles of Wild Irish Rose and a “found” half eaten gas station burrito. Funny or not [mostly not], any combination of brown rice, meat, beans, peppers, onions and a bit of cheese usually results in me being fully satisfied in the gut (and more than a tad gassy).
Tonight’s rice & beans was based on what Bon Appétit magazine calls the “hottest trend to come out of American kitchens since the kale-splosion of 2012.” Tex-Mex-Cajun-Italian Fusion.
The past two days have been less than fun: more ongoing frigid winter temps, a tooth filling that may need worked on for a 3rd time (probably needing a root canal), a dead battery in Wifey’s clown car (due to a certain ginger haired 10-year-old leaving the door ajar overnight) and an ongoing battle with my thoughtless neighbors over their two big ass dogs that they leave out in their yard for hours at a time to relentlessly bark as if the rest of the neighborhood REALLY enjoys hearing them bark at anyone, everything, anything everyone! Yeah, I know this all minor shit, but the minor shit is adding up and I’m letting it get to me. I need spring!! (REAL spring).
With all the dead battery drama this morning I missed out on a ride (not that I felt like riding in 15 degree temps), missed my time window for going to the gym and I had NOOOOOOO desire what-so-ever to ride the trainer. So I did what any red-blooded, stressed-out, depressed, American male who doesn’t have a real job to go to would do; I baked bread.
The stationary trainer is a strange beast. Hated by almost everyone and used by nearly as many, it allows for nothing but the vaguest feeling of actually riding your bike. In my opinion it’s WAY worse than running on a treadmill. Running sucks whether you are being chased by a gang of unruly thugs, doing a 5K, a marathon or on the treadmill at the gym… it just sucks. I respect and admire the folks who do it and enjoy it, but it sucks. When I do it, it hurts, it feels dumb and I ALWAYS think “this would be SO much better if I was on my bike.”
