Ketchup on a Hot Dog is the Nickelback of Comfort Food
I am not a food snob. Hell, I'll eat just about anything. My wife won't eat anything with a bone it. I am an adventurous eater. From baby octopus to raw oysters, I love it. Neither of those have bones. However, my wife doesn't eat them either. My son, Jackson is an adventurous foodie like me. We'll try anything. I haven't eaten many things that I don't like. In fact there is only one dish that I can think of that I won't eat again. Kimchi.
I haven't eaten Kimchi in about 30 years. It's a rancid dish from hell. I would rather eat the gelatinous globs that form on the edge of Bourbon Street puddles at 3AM on Fat Tuesday. I can't imagine a more horrible taste.
Tonight I ate a steak that was delivered to La La Land (our apartment for those that missed my earlier blog post). The steak came in a bag and was delivered by a guy that looks like he hit a hookah with his buddies while cruising backroads in central Alabama in a 1982 Chevy Citation. I ate my steak right after watching Charlie crap on the cheap contractor grade carpet that adorns the combination den/dining room. Hot Spot Carpet cleaner killed the shit smell. Salt and McCormick's Montreal Steak Seasoning killed the taste of the steak.
Ribeye, medium rare. It wasn't the bone-in ribeye from Perry's, Morton's or Shula's. It was a ribeye by definition. It came in a bag. It was handed to me by a guy that looked like he sleeps in his car and dreams of of backstage passes to a Phish concert.
Rotten garbage boiled in a dirty sock. That's how I would describe Kimchi. Maybe I had a bad batch. I don't know. That taste has haunted me for years. When we lived in Baltimore, we had good friends in our neighborhood named Genie and Aaron. Genie's mother is Korean. They are the kind of people that you wish all the best. I would do anything for them except eat Kimchi. Korean style ribs? Hell yeah. Genie's mother had the best Korean rib recipe. Fantastic.
In my 48 years on this planet, there are only two food rules that I have. 1) No Kimchi 2) No ketchup on a hot dog. Everything else can be put on my plate. Squirrel? Ate it. Sauerkraut right out of the jar? Yum. Chitterlings? Devoured them. Snails? Sucked them out of the shell. Pickled pigs feet? Done it. Cheese on a donut? Delicious.
I don't eat Kimchi for the taste. I don't put ketchup on my hot dog out of principle. My kids know the hot dog rule. My taste buds are forever scarred by Kimchi.
I just ate a steak from a bag after watching the dog crap on cheap carpet. Am I a disgusting creature? Maybe. A food snob, I am not. I have an iron stomach. I have daring tastebuds. My wife will outlive me. Gracie and Trey will outlive Jackson. Fish tacos out of a rusted food truck made by a sweaty guy named Skeeter will probably cause Jackson and me to die from an unidentifiable infection. We'll eat anything.
La La Land has a small Amana refrigerator/freezer. I recently replaced the appliance bulb that has probably been burned out for the last 5 years. It snows inside the freezer section and water drips in the refrigerator compartment. I hope that listeria avoids my jar of sauerkraut.
Kimchi is the devil's food. Ketchup on a hot dog is the Nickelback of comfort food.
I am on the back porch with a cigar. "Bodies" by Drowning Pool plays from my playlist. I puff on a Cuban. I feel the rumble in my stomach. I rest my feet on the broken styrofoam ice chest. I can still the taste the steak. At least it's not the taste of Kimchi.
There is a frost covered box of frozen square pizzas in the Amana. I probably could have forgone the the steak and microwaved the square pizza. Where's the adventure in that? Give me the rumble-causing steak. Just leave the Kimchi in Korea. We will save the ketchup for the hamburgers that we will grill at the house that is being built Over Yonder.
I haven't eaten Kimchi in about 30 years. It's a rancid dish from hell. I would rather eat the gelatinous globs that form on the edge of Bourbon Street puddles at 3AM on Fat Tuesday. I can't imagine a more horrible taste.
Tonight I ate a steak that was delivered to La La Land (our apartment for those that missed my earlier blog post). The steak came in a bag and was delivered by a guy that looks like he hit a hookah with his buddies while cruising backroads in central Alabama in a 1982 Chevy Citation. I ate my steak right after watching Charlie crap on the cheap contractor grade carpet that adorns the combination den/dining room. Hot Spot Carpet cleaner killed the shit smell. Salt and McCormick's Montreal Steak Seasoning killed the taste of the steak.
Ribeye, medium rare. It wasn't the bone-in ribeye from Perry's, Morton's or Shula's. It was a ribeye by definition. It came in a bag. It was handed to me by a guy that looked like he sleeps in his car and dreams of of backstage passes to a Phish concert.
Rotten garbage boiled in a dirty sock. That's how I would describe Kimchi. Maybe I had a bad batch. I don't know. That taste has haunted me for years. When we lived in Baltimore, we had good friends in our neighborhood named Genie and Aaron. Genie's mother is Korean. They are the kind of people that you wish all the best. I would do anything for them except eat Kimchi. Korean style ribs? Hell yeah. Genie's mother had the best Korean rib recipe. Fantastic.
In my 48 years on this planet, there are only two food rules that I have. 1) No Kimchi 2) No ketchup on a hot dog. Everything else can be put on my plate. Squirrel? Ate it. Sauerkraut right out of the jar? Yum. Chitterlings? Devoured them. Snails? Sucked them out of the shell. Pickled pigs feet? Done it. Cheese on a donut? Delicious.
I don't eat Kimchi for the taste. I don't put ketchup on my hot dog out of principle. My kids know the hot dog rule. My taste buds are forever scarred by Kimchi.
I just ate a steak from a bag after watching the dog crap on cheap carpet. Am I a disgusting creature? Maybe. A food snob, I am not. I have an iron stomach. I have daring tastebuds. My wife will outlive me. Gracie and Trey will outlive Jackson. Fish tacos out of a rusted food truck made by a sweaty guy named Skeeter will probably cause Jackson and me to die from an unidentifiable infection. We'll eat anything.
La La Land has a small Amana refrigerator/freezer. I recently replaced the appliance bulb that has probably been burned out for the last 5 years. It snows inside the freezer section and water drips in the refrigerator compartment. I hope that listeria avoids my jar of sauerkraut.
Kimchi is the devil's food. Ketchup on a hot dog is the Nickelback of comfort food.
I am on the back porch with a cigar. "Bodies" by Drowning Pool plays from my playlist. I puff on a Cuban. I feel the rumble in my stomach. I rest my feet on the broken styrofoam ice chest. I can still the taste the steak. At least it's not the taste of Kimchi.
There is a frost covered box of frozen square pizzas in the Amana. I probably could have forgone the the steak and microwaved the square pizza. Where's the adventure in that? Give me the rumble-causing steak. Just leave the Kimchi in Korea. We will save the ketchup for the hamburgers that we will grill at the house that is being built Over Yonder.
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