Sorry I'm Not Sorry But I'm Sorry

I know that you’re expecting me to start this blog post with the most apologetic of apologies for my pathetic absence, but I’ve decided that from now on, I will be unpredictable.  I will be wild and defy expectations by leaving out that sad little apology, simply because I feel like I’ve reached the point where inconsistent blog posts have become the norm, and therefore, as have the consistent apologies.  And once apologies become the norm and more consistent than my shaving habits, the sincerity of each apology can only diminish until it reaches a point of sadness so sad that only the day after Christmas can compare.

So you see, to spare the world from such sadness, I will no longer be apologizing for my absences.  But I guess in this case, apologizing would have been far easier than explaining the reasoning behind my lack of apology.  And also I guess in this case, my acknowledging the lack of apology is an indirect apology in itself.

On another note, I had the chance to visit a beloved over my much deserved fall break.  But even more than well deserved, this hiatus was much-more-than-much needed.  You see, coming into senior year, I was under the influence that college seniors did nothing but eat, sleep, and exist.  Actually, I'd even go as far to say that the existing wasn't a conscious effort on their part, but rather, they just let it happen.  As a college senior, however, let me tell you something.  Take all your beliefs and prior conceptions of life as a college senior and drop it like it's a Shabu Shabu hot pot, because nothing is what college seniors do on opposite day, and everything?  Everything is what college seniors do on the daily. 

I kid you not, I was Jabril.  For those of you who don't know, which I'm sure is nearly all of you, Jabril is the goldfish my roommate won playing one of those state fair games that you're actually not supposed to win.  No, I'm not nearly half the looker, nor do I live in a 2 gallon-sized mason jar on the granite kitchen countertop, but yes, like Jabril, I was drowning--suffocating in a sea of floating, linear, pink turds--waste, I had inflicted upon myself. 

I was in desperate need of a break and a breath of fresh air--or I guess, being Jabril and all, an air pump to churn the stagnant waters.  Naturally, given fall break and the opportunity to leave my poop-polluted habitat, I seized it.  I booked the first and cheapest flight I could find to Minnesota, and went.  I was in the pursuit of happiness and on the search for some good ol' R&R--Rapid City and Rushmore, with a bit of Minnesota sprinkled in, of course.

Seeing as I've failed to spend my sorry's at the start of this little post, I have one to spare, and so, I'll throw it into my savings account to sit and laze around with the other things that should be used wisely and deliberately.  There is not only a time, but also a place, for savings account inhabitants, and these friends should only be called upon in times of dire need and necessity.

With that being said, I think that it's appropriate to make that withdrawal, because I'm genuinely sorry that I couldn't stick you all in my pocket to experience this midwest adventure with me.  Instead, you'll have to appreciate and experience these flyover states with Jason Aldean and I the only way you can through the interweb--vicariously.

 

Until my next unapologetic post,

Kimmy

Doing It Like Dudes at Midwood

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do”, my friend Kate hollered from the backseat of the fun-mobile just as I was shifting into park. “So, naturally, when in North Carolina, go out for some Texas styled barbeque”, I laughed, pulling the key out of the ignition. “Regardless, I could go for any kind of barbeque right now”, Kate closed her eyes, wrinkled her brows and cradled her stomach. “I’m absolutely starved”, she whined. My stomach couldn’t help but to whine right along with her, and whimper in agreement.

“Welcome to Midwood Smokehouse”, our waiter, a bearded and tattooed brunette dressed in black, greeted us with a smile. “Could I get you ladies anything to drink? We have a wide selection of beers on tap if y’all are interested”. As the responsible designated driver, I opted for water, and as responsible passengers, my friends did the same. He smiled at us, and I’m sure at our innocence, as he let us know that our drinks would be right out.

Scanning the menu options, I couldn’t help but wonder why or how I’d gone living so much of my life not only consuming such sad barbeque, but also accepting my sad barbeque as barbeque. “Carolina Pork”, Luya clutched the menu, her grip threatening to leave crinkles on the edges, “Hickory smoked chopped pork, lightly dressed in our Eastern NC vinegar sauce—I have to”. I believed in it too—I believed in my sad barbeque. Every summer that rolled around tied me to the belief that overdone slabs of steak served with plain pasta, a puddle of ketchup, and a healthy dose of A1, could even be classified as barbeque. Instead of being turned away by barbeque’s ringleader, Regina-Eastern-Carolina-Barbeque-George, my sad summer suppers were allowed not only to associate, but also sit with the great Reginas and Gretchen-Texas-Style-Barbeque-Weiners, of the barbeque world. “I might have to go with the Burnt Ends”, Kate declared, interrupting my brief trip down memory lane. “Crispy caramelized cubes of brisket”, she read, her eyes, already practically the size of saucers, widening by the word, “tossed in our own house made Fat Tire BBQ Sauce”. I laughed and grabbed her menu from her before her saliva decided to grace its stark white pages. Flipping around, I skimmed through the appetizers, sandwiches, salads, and sides until I reached the castle at the end of the yellow brick road, the “classic bbq plates”. Eyeing the beef brisket prepared “Texas style in it its natural juices”. “I can’t believe how far I’ve come”, I smiled, unable to help but to recall the dry slabs of beef claiming to be barbeque that peppered my younger years. “Yeah, almost two and a half hours”, Luya threw her head into her palms. “We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore”, I remarked, closing my menu. “Obviously Kim”, Kate turned to me, “we’re in Charlotte”.

“What can I get you ladies?” Given my indecisive nature, the waiter’s timing was nearly spot on. “The large portion of burnt ends”, Kate nodded, “with hushpuppies and collard greens”. “The pulled pork”, Luya declared, confident in her decision, “large portion—with baked beans, coleslaw and hushpuppies”. I was pretty much set on my choice, but the hickory smoked pulled chicken, lightly dressed in house made South Carolina mustard sauce was proving to be a serious contender. “How’s the chicken?” I asked. “Is this your first time here?” I nodded. “Go for pork or beef”, he suggested. “Alright then”, I smiled as the weight of the decision was lifted off my shoulder, “the small brisket with collards and smoked veggies”. “Oh, and the fried pickles too?” Kate smiled at us for approval, but we all knew the decision was made regardless of our consent. The waiter jotted down her request, picked up our menus, and reassured us that our food would be out in no time before leaving us to our conversation.

After a few minutes of gabbing and a few more minutes of gossiping, our waiter reappeared with a red plastic basket, lined with a picnic-inspired red-and-white-checkered wax paper, and filled with slices of deep fried pickles. A fried pickle virgin, I curiously picked one up. It was ridged and reassuring—blessed and browned with the perfect tan, the pickle was the color of comfort. It was the warm brown of fried chicken with the golden undertones of funnel cake. Surprisingly sturdy, the pickle held its own when dunked into the black tub of accompanying ranch dressing. Satisfyingly thick and luxuriously creamy, the dressing was the consistency of guilt—practically begging to be slathered and spread. It oozed, rather than trickled, hugging the fried pickle with utter and complete devotion. I couldn’t help myself—I went in for a lick before I dared a nibble. It was a sensual experience—one that was differentiated by contrasting tastes and textures. The coolness of the ranch helped to balance out the rough and rugged pickle, and the dry outer fried shell worked surprisingly well with the pickle’s natural juiciness—opposites could not have been attracted more perfectly so. Had I been a bit less hungry, hence a bit more difficult to satisfy, I may have argued that the shell could have been crisper, and the crunch, more auditorily satisfying. You see, I’m a McDonald’s fries over In-N-Out’s kind of girl, simply because fries should be, well, fried. They shouldn’t wilt at your touch, but rather stand erect between your fingers; anything less would be an injustice to the art of frying and the nature of fried foods. Had I been a bit less hungry, I would have expected an eargasm, but what can I say? I was desperate—I was easy, and with that, I was easily pleased.

As with all sinful pleasures, the excitement was short-lived. With three pickles under my belt, I threw in the towel and called it quits, leaving my friends to attack the remaining few. Newly escorted out of the land of the hangry and into the land of the hungry, I checked my watch just as the second hand rushed past the hour mark—5:40. I glanced up towards the bar and the three men nursing their beers, eyes fixated on the flat screens situated above the beers on tap. I should have figured—ESPN. Glancing around the room, I was surprised at how empty the restaurant was considering the noise level. The blaring rock music was just loud enough to encourage small talk without threatening to drown out and overpower conversation. Because of this, there was a good buzz going about the restaurant despite the fact that there were at most only four other groups of diners scattered about. I’m sure that the buzz had nothing to do with the fact that it was happy hour, and everything to do with the music, but I’m sure Jamie Foxx and T-Pain would have begged to differ. The brick walls were worn and weathered, covered in vintage metal road signs and beer paraphernalia. The lights were dim, and the tables, varnished. The beer—abundant—and the red meats, even more so. “Hmm”, I murmured to myself, just as the waiter reappeared and handed us literal platters of meat, “we’ve stepped into a male utopia”. This place was nearly everything my dad’s man cave wasn’t, but wishes it were.

“Could I get you ladies anything else?” I checked my plate and counted my sides. One. I recounted. One. “I think I ordered smoked vegetables too”, I remarked, lifting the cup of collards just in case the smoked veggies thought it’d be funny to hide underneath. “Yes, you did”, he replied, “Sorry about that! Let me bring them right on out”. He was apologetic, without being annoyingly so, and attentive enough to make us feel cared for rather than smothered—pretty much what you’d expect in a decent boyfriend, I guess, but obviously better. I mean, how could a man who was always carrying a pitcher of water or unholy heaps of meat when you saw him not be better than the best boyfriend?



“Alright guys, let’s eat!” I exclaimed excitedly, looking up to find Luya already mid-chew. Laughing, I grabbed my fork and decided to go straight for the collard greens. Although I’m not exactly sure how anything cooked in bacon grease could possibly be bad, I found myself extremely disappointed. A soppy mess, the greens were close to flavorless, and even the generous sprinkle of diced bacon and bacon fat couldn’t do anything to change that. “Did they just decide to bathe the collards in water?” Kate looked disgusted as she shoved her cup aside. The brisket, however, was much more satisfying. Crusted and flavor packed around the edges, the meat was lean, moist, and tender. It pulled apart obediently and without resistance at my insistence, and obligingly and wordlessly endured countless numbers of, what I’m sure should be classified as torturous, dips and dunks into the accompanying barbeque sauce. Unlike the ranch, the sauce was dark and sweet, yet savory. It was more complex, and dripped and dribbled, rather than oozed. This wasn’t a dipping sauce, I concluded. Meat was meant to be mercilessly drowned in this—it really had no other option. If the brisket was moist, the pulled pork, tossed and turned in a light coat of vinegar, was succulent to the point of juiciness. And if the pork was practically oozing juice, the burnt ends, simply were not. Although much drier in comparison, they were absolute flavor bombs. A plate of the best bits, a platter of the best bobs, zero percent guilt and one hundred percent pleasure, the burnt ends were dark, caramelized, chestnut brown, glazed in a sticky, house made barbeque sauce, and blessed with a char that toughened the ends to assume a texture somewhat in between beef and jerky. They were the pan scrapings and brownie ends of barbeque—I couldn’t get enough. I was making my way back to Kate’s plate for a second go when I was interrupted by the return of the waiter.

“Here you go”, he smiled, sliding my tray of vegetables before me: an array of smoked broccoli, summer squash, zucchini, red bell peppers and purple onions—It was essentially summer, grilled, smoked, charred, and presented on a plate. The smokiness seemed to permeate the vegetables, softening and rounding out the flavors, adding another dimension and layer of depth to the otherwise rather one-dimensional ingredient. With that being said, however, the vegetables were excessively oily, and coated my lips with a much too generous layer of unflattering gloss. But at least the gloss was good, I thought to myself, licking my lips.

By this point I was winding down, and looking over at Kate and Luya’s platter, I noticed that the rate at which they were stuffing their faces had significantly decreased despite the fact that both platters were still pathetically full. Given that we were practically in an idealized man cave, however, I really shouldn’t have expected anything less than behemoth portions. “Could we get the check please?” I gestured to the waiter, “as well as a few boxes to go?” I asked. “I’ll handle it for you”, he reassured us, grabbing our plates of unfinished food.

Within a few minutes, he returned with our food boxed and bagged in one hand, and the check in the other. Kate grabbed the check. “$19 a person should cover it, and that includes tax”. “Not bad”, Luya nodded her head, “but I think I’m too full”. I didn’t feel it necessary to remind them that they had ordered large platters that I’m sure were made for men feeling extra carnivorous. “So”, Kate grabbed the doggie bags and began making her way towards the door, “when in North Carolina, do as the Texans do?” I scrunched my brows, “Maybe when in Charlotte”. “But regardless”, Luya patted her stomach, “don’t do it as big as the Romans do”.