Thursday, June 30, 2011

Week 28: You’re Not Invited

It’s a weekend of merriment and you’re not invited. That’s because it’s our anniversary and we’ve got romance to celebrate people. As I look back on the past year, I see a lot of food, but I also see 365 remarkable days of happiness in addition to the ten pounds I’ve gained in my fupa. (Note: If you seek the definition of “fupa”, ask elsewhere).  Anyway, it’s ten pounds of love my friends. Who would have thought we’d last?  Northerner, Southerner. Democrat, Republican. Mutt, Dutch. Cats, Cows. Moustache, Moustache. Correction: Wax Job, Beard.

It’s the simple and sometimes expensive things that keep us happy and we’ve touched upon all of them this weekend: sake bombing, Bacardi-loaded Coronas, movies, sleeping, sushi, steak, seafood, adults in unitards, Gaspar’s Grotto, PBR and holding hands…. And the distant hope that someday he’ll propose and then one or two or five swimmers will slip by the goalie and we’ll have an army of nuggets to share all of these wonderful things with.  

Having kids is no laughing matter, but I’ve had a few wonderful encounters this weekend with the tiny people, and I must say that I simply cannot wait. For example, 4 year old in our suite at Cirque du Soleil: “HEY, HE JUST GOT KICKED IN THE PENIS!”  Awesome. Even though it wasn’t that brilliant of an observation, since everyone could see the poor man’s genitals through his unitard, it was an observation nonetheless and one I was happy he made aloud.  And then there was the 10 year old getting a tongue lashing from his father outside of the St. Pete Times Forum: “I PAID TOO MUCH MONEY FOR THAT SUITE FOR YOU TO JUST TAKE A PISS ON THE FLOOR!”  Oh valiant boy, don’t be ashamed--- Ryan does that too.  

Charley’s steakhouse was the highlight of the weekend and while I should be writing about our fabulous dinner, charming waiter, massive martinis and more, these are the Sunday Meatball Chronicles and that was Saturday.

So, it’s now Sunday morning and we’ve slept in and taken our precious time deciding on a brunch location. Where to go, where to go. While it is our “special” weekend, I think we’ve already spent enough money and engaged in enough recreation… I’m tired. Screw brunch. Most brunch locations close around 2PM and it’s 1PM so we’re really cutting it close. Part of me wants to go to Three Coins, where the Meatball Chronicles all began and Ryan first told me he’d be interested in genetically engineering our children. It was a special day. But before I can speak my mind, Ryan has decided on The Refinery. Oh well, hopefully it’s another gem in Seminole Heights.

When we arrive there, I’m very pleased with the atmosphere. Very similar venue to Ellas, except they don’t have any cool art or interesting trinkets laying around. The only thing interesting to look at is their customer base. And there, out of the corner of my eye I spot Cliff Leaf.

Cliff Leaf was our rugged and sexy landscaper growing up, and while this man dining at The Refinery this morning is not the real Cliff Leaf, he could be his twin. Looking back, I don’t know that Cliff Leaf’s name was actually Cliff Leaf or if that was just the nature-themed nomenclature he decided upon given his occupation.  When I was a little girl I enjoyed Cliff’s visits, which were not often due to my mother’s love for mowing her own lawn. Cliff only showed up for the “big jobs.”  He resembled the missing link between apes and Neanderthals, or maybe he was just a Neanderthal. I'm not sure, the memory is blurred. Long brown hair, huge muscles, a big beard and dirty hands.  At 8 years old I didn't know what it meant to be turned on so I'd just sit in the window and imagine him hugging me all over. I'd find reasons to go outside while he was working, like rollerblading through our rock driveway or asking my aunt across the street for a diet soda. We didn't keep diet soda in my house. My parents didn't believe in diets.

It’s funny how time changes things. Today, I associate this type of look with artsy, jobless, marijuana smoking, cliff rappelling humans with an undying love for nature and all things unkempt. Nothing wrong with these types of people, they’re just often disgusting and I can’t personally tolerate their lack of keeping up on the times. It’s 2011; there is no need for you to be living in a VW van, following a band cross country, smoking weed, wearing glow stick necklaces and dressing like a bum. It’s people like this that slow down our nation’s productivity and put us so far behind those crazy Asian masterminds.  If there was ever one exception to this “look,” it was Cliff, and he was a God.

Shortly after my mid-afternoon fantasy, we decide to order our food. I’m not in the mood for much and gaze over the biscuits and gravy, but I end up letting Ryan give them a try. I’ll just take the first thing on the menu (I don’t remember the name of it). Now, I know that The Refinery changes their menu every single week and hats off to the cooks and staff for being so flexible and creative. I am going to go ahead and give them benefit of the doubt and say that we chose The Refinery on a dreadful week.

Ryan’s biscuits and gravy were quite bland. And the biscuits were hard. While Ryan may have enjoyed their rock texture and soft warm insides, I don’t really appreciate having to risk a second chip on these pearly whites just to find some warm soft dough in the center. Note: First chip came in college, when I attempted drunk navigating my bedroom in the pitch black. Resulted in face planting into my desk.

Like I said, I can’t remember the name of what I ordered but I chose it because it sounded so mysterious: two grit cakes with poached eggs, bacon, sausage and tomato-based sauce. Well, it turns out that is one of the most offensive combinations you can create. Had the sauce been better I may have enjoyed it, but imagine having perfectly crispy grit cakes, perfectly poached eggs, bacon and spinach. Now separately, imagine eating one of those really shitty microwave spaghetti dinners. When you’re done with the noodles you don’t savor the sauce because it sucks. Yes, imagine dumping all the leftover sauce ALL OVER the beautiful grit cakes, perfectly poached eggs, bacon and spinach. FAIL.

When our waitress came over to check on us I didn’t have the heart to tell her how I really felt. “How is everything?”  “Great (Insert fake smile here).”  Little did she know I would have rather positioned myself in front of the saucer of half and half and lapped it like a cat.

The Refinery has received numerous culinary awards, so they must be doing something right. Maybe awards are based on meal presentation. But presentation doesn’t make the meal. As they say, you can’t polish a turd. Ryan expressed his concern for the latest trends of culinary awards and their recent emphasis on using local and/or organic ingredients. His point was well taken (by me): these obsessions with local farmers may be trumping the simple yet often overlooked requirements for good flavor. It’s very nice that you’re supporting farmer Harry from Methner, but his tomatoes SUCK.

I don’t think they’ll be getting a second visit from us unless it’s for the beer, because they did appear to have a pretty wonderful selection from microbreweries. Oh, and how could I forget, they let you drink out of mason jars. So, if you are looking for an interesting way to consume liquids, a nice beer selection, and a mid-afternoon fantasy surrounding Cliff, The Refinery is your place. If you’d like brunch, try one of the two great gems nearby- Ellas or Three Coins!




Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Week 27: Mocktails and Shemales at Hamburger Mary's

Rise and shine, it’s the morning of our very first Meatball Chronicles event. We’ve invited our followers and I am slightly nervous. Sadly, I envision my wedding day being an identical situation--a bunch of people I don’t care about, showing up for the food, booze and trannys.  

I prefer to remain behind the scenes, amusing others through my blog without attaching a face to the spitefulness. It is because of this that I have decided to wear a disguise: lipstick. I typically arrive at brunch unshowered, with caked on makeup from the night before. I truly believe that no one will recognize me if I attempt looking like a heavier-set Megan Fox today. My lips are fire engine red.  We are on our way to Hamburger Mary’s for their Drag Queen brunch and I will put these shemales to shame, even if they do have bigger boobs than me.

As we approach the entrance, a half hour early, a girl is sitting outside and Ryan immediately greets her “Heyyy Stranger. How have you been? I didn’t know you were coming today! Have you met Michelle?”  Girl with oversized sunglasses sweating through her apparel while sitting on a bench like an Ybor bum: “Of course I have! Hey Michelle!”  Shit. I have no clue who this hooker is. I hate it when I forget people.

Despite arriving early, people were already there and seated. Again, shit. So much for “hosting an event”— these people are on their own page. I gladly accept this though because the thought of interacting with people this morning makes me cringe. Between my pounding headache, overbearing feeling of nausea and the PBR Tallboys that are seeping out my pores, I don’t want anything to do with them.

What an eclectic crowd: Jews that Booze, a DUI counselor, a black man who slightly resembles Sinbad the Sailor, a swinger, a Mexican, an aspiring European, an old man, lovebirds, a red head, a mom, a silver spoon child, a tranny-phobe, a dwarf with phenomenal hair, Ryan, a man who likes cats, a reality TV star, and an entire half of a table I never got around to meeting. Oh, and a girl with rainbow suspenders. Very nice. Really.  The only commonality we have is that we are all bastard children, celebrating Father’s Day at a $12.95 brunch.

While nearly everyone took advantage of Mary’s bottomless mimosas and bloody marys, I was stuck trying to control my dizziness and nausea.  A few shots here, a few shots there, not even the hair of the dog could cure me from this hangover. I wanted to indulge in the heaping piles of amazing buffet food but despite it’s deliciousness I just couldn’t do it. I was disappointed with their mimosas that were approximately 80% orange juice with a splash of champagne. I may be an alcoholic, but give a girl a break.

Ryan was on the slippery slope towards becoming a hot mess. I know when he’s passed the point of no return because he starts making noises similar to Scooby Doo. Every response is “But Babe…” “Hmmm. Yummm” …. “What Babe What?”  (Insert Scooby Doo accent + variation of fist pumping here).

Shortly after 1PM the shemales of Mary’s came on stage to begin the drag queen show. I know this lifestyle is foreign to Ryan but we are in the front row and I plan to make one of these hot drag queens sit right on his lap. If I’m lucky there will be some ball on ball action. I need more dollars. Ryan, go to the ATM…. It is I who wants a lap dance….

Well, even dollars didn’t accomplish the situation I had envisioned. It turns out the performers aren’t strippers. In fact, they are far from it. One of them even sings and dances, and is very good at it.

While enjoying the show, a few people in our group tried stealing a stuffed animal ewok that was on display. Upon getting caught by the waiter, they bribed him with $20 to just let them have it.  $20? That is the stupidest $20 ever spent. Ever. What are we 6 years old at a carnival? If you wanted something short and hairy walk out the frigan door, there’s always a midget at James Joyce Pub.

I am going to need to go back to Hamburger Marys… But absolutely not for the booze. The Washington Apples I needed so desperately to save me from my hangover were as weak as my immune system that morning. The champagne was almost nonexistent in the mimosas and they somehow managed to run out of it. I’ve never really enjoyed bloody marys either. Ryan enjoyed several bloodies, probably because he drowned pieces of bacon from the buffet in them. If it wasn’t for everybody buying shots left and right, I don’t know how anyone would have accomplished a buzz. I mean, I get it, you don’t always get a group of 30 bastards wanting to black out on Father’s Day. But you’ve gotta be prepared for these things.

The buffet was amazing and I am still kicking myself for being unable to eat, which is why I will be back. For $12.95, I say screw the booze and eat tens of dollars worth of sausage patties, eggs, fried chicken, mac n cheese, biscuits and gravy, mashed potatoes, whatever the salty mystery meat was and the amazingly tasty and oddly shaped tater tot they so kindly sized up to a pre-pubescent boy. Don’t worry Mary, I’ll be back. But I’m bringing a flask.





Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Week 26: Ella’s Americana Folk Art Café – The Blood Diamond of Seminole Heights

We needed to sleep in today- what a horrible task. Ella’s brunch doesn’t start until 11am and if we had woken up any earlier we surely would have starved! It’s 10am and Ryan has approached my bed with a bottle of bubbly. If there weren’t cats in the bedroom I’d say I was living the dream. There is no better start to the day than a $10 bottle of champagne and a jug of generic orange juice.   

As we get ready for the long-awaited brunch at “Ella’s Soul Food Sunday,” Ryan pulls an extremely long hair of mine out of his beard. It’s intertwined in his stubble and he pulls it in awe as if it will never end. This is not as exhilarating as when he finds one stuck in his butt. Yes, you read that correctly. Now, before you go thinking that I have ever buried my head in Ryan’s ass, I want you to understand something: I’m Italian and I shed like a black lab. If you spend enough time with me, chances are my hair will sneak into your ass. Don’t ask me how. It’s one of those mysteries of the universe.

We pour the rest of our champagne into some plastic cups for the road and take off. Ella’s is not far away and I’m fortunate of that because suddenly I’m starving. I took a sneak peek at the menu online while Ryan was hair hunting. We can’t find parking anywhere and although the pawn shop next door is closed, we don’t dare park there. We’re on Nebraska Ave and unless you’re cashing in your grill or freeing your 24s from the hock, you’d best not leave your vehicle to squat in the parking lot. 

We settle on a welcoming and spacious church parking lot down the road. Good Christian people don’t tow, or so I hear. Our plan was to park, and casually walk the opposite direction towards Ella’s, but as we turned the car off we realized we were at a predominantly black Southern Baptist church. So much for fitting in. 

A man screams from the other side of the parking lot “HELLO. HOW’VE YOU BEEN.” I panic and raise my plastic champagne glass “HELLO FATHER, PRAISE THE LORD?!?” I smile at Ryan, proud of my jovial start to the day, and wonder if today’s Meatball Chronicle will accidently lead us into a church were we don’t belong. He shakes his head at me and lets me know that I just waived to a man who wasn’t talking to me. As Ryan’s so labeled “Brother Ja'quan” and his family step out from the car behind us, gather their leather bound, monogrammed Bibles and join the man I thought was waiving to me, I realize that Ryan is correct. 

So, when we finally arrive, Ella’s Soul Food Sunday is busy bringing soothing comfort food to the people of Tampa, food that brings back warm memories of the Southern, albeit African inspired family dinners you may have buried in your past. By this time Sean and John-Paul have joined us and I begin to wonder if we’ve opened the proverbial can of worms toward the slippery slope of becoming swingers. The four of us have been spending a lot of time together these days and you just never know where it starts. One second you think you have a normal friend or coworker; the next you find out they are submitting ads on craigslist for third and fourth sets of genitals. 

Round 1 ordering takes place: 2 mimosas, 2 bloody marys. The mimosas are your average, skinny champagne glass rip-offs but I already have a nice buzz and they’re strong enough to keep the ball rolling. The bloody marys are $10/each but they are worth every penny. They come garnished with pickled okra, stuffed olive, lime wheel, an entire smoky pork rib and rimmed with brown sugar and bbq spice rub.  Typically heat radiates but these bloodys showcase their spice from the colonies of white raw horseradish chunks and the cascading blizzard of red and black pepper flakes.  For someone who hates bloody marys, even I’m intrigued. I take a sip of Ryan’s… nope, still disgusting. Ryan and Sean claim they are amazing and I’ll take their word for it. If I liked bloody marys, I’d probably live at Ellas. Appetizers ordered: fried pickled okra, fried pickles, fried green tomatoes. All three are to die for.  

As we wait for our meals, sipping ice cold PBR tall boys in the humid FL pre-summer sun, John-Paul and I scratch some lottery tickets and a man on a bicycle rides by on one wheel while balancing on the curb. I want to make fun of him but I’m jealous of his gypsy powers. When our food comes I’m almost embarrassed by how fat we are. I’m not even hungry after eating all of our fried appetizers and booze but I stretch and do other things like exhale, hoping that some space in my stomach will miraculously appear.

Here goes nothing: biscuits and gravy, chicken and waffles, collard greens with bacon and ham hock, pulled pork sandwich and ribs – both alongside a heap of fried sliced dill pickles. Oh, for the table, not just me! 

The menu says the biscuits are topped with country and chorizo sausage gravy and cheddar cheese.  They’re far from traditional by any means.  The chorizo is powerful enough to overpower any presence of “country sausage gravy” but this rendition that looks similar to puke after late-night pizza doesn’t scare me- these are the best damn biscuits and gravy I have EVER had.  
Soul Food Sunday at Ella’s Americana Folk Art Café is an event at a location that has the ability to define Tampa. It is a conglomerate of southern and soul food favorites prepared with an upscale twist set in a neighborhood as diverse and eclectic as the restaurant’s decorations and its guests. I now know that their brunch is just as deserving of a visit for their dinner menu. Don’t even get me started on the Fat Japs and the Tuna Stack. Oooooh, I’m such a meatball.








Friday, June 10, 2011

Week 25: 25 Straight Weeks of Brunch, Celebrated with Another Great Brunch.

It’s diner time! I’ve been craving a hot greasy breakfast from a white-haired, overly charming, coffee pouring, lady server for quite some time now and Ryan has made a remarkable selection:  Potbellies. I’ve never been but chances are I’ll love it.  My love for diners was founded many moons ago, when I was a young meatball. My father used to trick me into going to church by saying we’d go to “The Egg and I” afterwards. Hell, I’d go to a funeral, the dentist, fat camp or the library if it ended with breakfast at The Egg and I diner.

It wasn’t until I was older that I realized diners were great for hangovers, wallets and weight gain. I’m not hungover today but Ryan may be. I let him off his leash last night to go partying with the boys, while I stayed in and enjoyed an evening of beauty rest. I woke up looking exactly the same, if not worse…. so it turns out that doesn’t work and I should have got intoxicated.  

I’m wearing a romper today because celebrities tell me they are cool, but I’m uncomfortable. There is something so wrong with taking a children’s wardrobe concept and sticking a pair of boobs and an adult ass in it. The least they could have done was gone full throttle and put snaps on the crotch so I wouldn’t have to take the entire thing off to pee. Needless to say, I still feel like a jetsetter.

As we enter Potbellies I’m surprised by the floor plan. Not what I was expecting. Diners typically have long, thin floor plans despite all of their customers being obese. I often wonder what evil human sits at the roots of all these plans and thinks that it will be hilarious to put large groups of overweight humans in tight pathways. It’s like hamsters in a toilet paper tube every time. But Potbellies is different; they are a wide open venue and they don’t have a countertop bar like most diners. They do however, have traditional booths, and we are quick to take one.

There are pigs everywhere. Pig paintings, pig wallpaper, pig statues, pig menus, pig people. Between Ryan’s love for anything pig related, and my anxiety related to interior decorating, I immediately become concerned that this is what my future kitchen may look like. Unable to concentrate on anything else, I blurt out “OUR KITCHEN WON’T LOOK LIKE THIS WILL IT!?!?” He says no, with exception of a pig-shaped jar that will hold fresh bacon at all times. I can deal with that. My anxiety subsides and I am finally able to concentrate on what I want to eat instead of our distasteful surroundings.

Speaking of distasteful surroundings, the man at the table next to us has “Kimberly” tattooed on his neck. Ryan and I have a short debate over who Kimberly is and decide minutes later that Kimberly is not a wife or mistress or child but is a dead child or maybe even a dead cat.

Often odd topics like this take a turn for a worse, so this immediately led into a discussion of natural disasters and flooding and who you would save if you could only swim holding one person. In the event that we had a family, Ryan said he would save me. I should probably be flattered, but instead I’m taken aback. He would save his old hag wife before his young child with a promising future? Actually, in his defense, you have no idea what that child is going to become and who’s to say it won’t be a tranny some day or a cross dresser like the man in Silence of the Lambs who tucks his wieney between his legs. Ryan further supports his decision by letting me know that “he picked me” and “wants to have a life with me” and that “children can be recreated and replaced.”  Again, I’m not sure if this is romantic.

Our waitress takes our order and Ryan gets the special: Country Fried Steak Skillet with a side of bacon. I get the Meat Lovers Skillet and make it a “half-order” instead of the full skillet. I’m trying to be a weight-conscious lady these days, but I don’t hesitate to order a side of gravy to dump all over the biscuit that comes with it.

It’s 11:11 Ryan, make a wish! “I wish smith and smeigle would go missing. Just as a child is replaceable, so is a cat.”  Smith and Smeigle are my cats and while I don’t care for them too much either, sometimes he just needs to keep things to himself. After all, I didn’t let him know that I wished for a ring off craigslist so that we’d have more money in the bank to buy a bigger house.

When our food came, it was nothing short of fanfuckingtastic. Potbellies can turn an ordinary skillet into an orgasm of the palate. Everything was amazing and who really cares if your waitress wears too much hair spray, you’re surrounded by pigs, the ceiling panels have water damage and your fellow diner patrons are unsightly border hoppers? Aside from the floor plan, Potbellies is your typical diner, with great greasy food for a great price.





Friday, June 3, 2011

Week 24: Orangina Eggs

The saga continues: The Fag Hag, The Country Boy, and Two Butt Pirates. We’re becoming a cute little family, the four of us, albeit dysfunctional, non-traditional and motley. Sean and John-Paul can’t have babies because um, they practice "docking" and Ryan and I are “out of wedlock,” so until wedding bells ring or Sean and John-Paul buy a black child, we’ll remain the motley crew.

I’m not complaining. After all, we’ve only been living in the woods for the past 24 hours “camping,” burying our poop like felines, and talking about bitches. John-Paul always tells bitches that they should eat their makeup so they can be pretty on the inside too. Clever. He never says that to me. Maybe it’s because I’m not even pretty on the outside, never mind working on the inside.  

To be honest, I’m surprised Ryan has lasted this long. Not because we’re camping, he loves camping. But because of all of the people in his life to spend a weekend in the woods with, I am positive we weren’t in his top three drafts. Camping in May’s humidity has me cranky and I smell like a Steak n’ Shake parking lot. The sun is hot and my body is sore and scratched all over. I blame my soreness on the slowly deflating air mattress until Sean reminds me that I slipped off a wet log and ate shit while skinny dipping just 12 hours prior. Dammit.

All we have left for food and/or breakfast is a few hotdogs from the night before, english muffins, eggs and oranges. No booze and no water. Again, dammit.  No need to fear though, I have staged an amazing survival method that is sure to impress everyone. We immediately, under my command, start cutting the oranges in half and scooping the orange out, leaving us with two bowl-like orange halves. We fill the halves with scrambled eggs and put them in the fire pit. Easycampingmeals.com says this works and I’m excited to act like I invented it. Well, minutes and then tens of minutes go by.

Eventually Sean and Ryan pull their egg bowls from the pit out of frustration. Everyone’s eggs look like baby throw up and even worse, taste like oranges. John-Paul and I leave ours untouched and in the heat for several minutes longer, thinking that we are going to be the ones to win this culinary challenge. John-Paul’s turns out “perfect,” but I need a few more minutes. No one wants to eat the english muffins because they are unbearable without water and we are parched.

Upon complaining about something, probably my retarded egg-bowl idea, Sean dumps his mouthwash into the fire pit, covering my egg-orange creation. “Don’t worry Sean, I wasn’t going to eat that or anything…”

So, here we are. More than a mile hike from civilization, thirsty and starving. Worst Meatball Chronicle ever. Wait. Ryan has an idea. Everyone gather your bags, pack up camp, there is a Lupton’s Fat Man’s Barbeque Buffet just miles away. One we have never been to before. But you know how we feel about Lupton’s…..

It is at this point I’d like to give Ryan the opportunity to document our real Meatball Chronicle, and possibly shit all over my failed attempt at one. I think it’s important we gain an additional perspective on the weekend, and hell, we’ve never done it before. Ehhh—hemmm: Is this mic on? I give you, the formerly silent partner in crime, Ryan: 

Did you know that being a perfectionist is more of a tragic flaw than it is a quality of character?  Projects take twice as long as they should.  Events are planned down to the minute. And Meatball Chronicles are considered weeks in advance.  Let me take a moment to clarify a few items before we dive into this pseudo-camping experience. 

1.     I’ve been looking for an excuse to visit the trailer park and buffet mecca of Florida otherwise known as Zephyrhills for quite some time, so contrary to what anyone may have assumed, I had planned on visiting Lupton’s or one of Zephyrhills other gluttonous culinary establishments since the day I made the reservation at Hillsborough River State Park.  In fact, whether it was conscious planning or subconscious wisdom, it’s very possible that I selected Hillsborough River State Park for this Memorial Weekend Excursion for no other reason than its close proximity to the buffet promised land.

2.      My anxiety has nothing to do with my company and much more to do with the fact that this is the first camping trip we’ve embarked upon where planning responsibilities were shared and I lacked total control of the event. 

Did you know that perfectionist is actually just a polite way call someone anal?  Speaking of anal, my planning responsibilities were shared with the aforementioned butt pirates, whose enthusiasm for the weekend in the woods was downright frightening.  Between John-Paul’s aspirations for eating mushrooms (and I don’t mean the delicious truffle variety) and Sean’s over indulgence in camping supplies; I was worried that the trip had the ability to transform from a camping adventure to an Adventure in Babysitting.

Contrary to my anal premonitions, we survived the night scathed only by a quarter xanax, a near missing person’s report, some thieving armadillos and a fun idea - turned inedible campfire breakfast. 

Oh perfect segue, I made it back to breakfast.  Lesson learned: don’t cook eggs in a hollowed out orange.  Having lived in FL for over four years now, I’ve learned how to enjoy running, take the beach for granted, embrace the bandwagon fan, and use the zest of citrus fruits in many sauces, marinades and glazes.  Citrus oil has a more potent flavor than any juice or pulp so while I was fully aware of how Michelle’s little culinary experiment would turn out, I kept my mouth shut while encouraging ingenuity and applauding her brave pallet.  Playing along with her orangina infused egg recipe during the planning stages of this MB Chronicle, I mistakenly took solace in the fact that we could fall back on toasted cinnamon raison and whole wheat English muffins stuffed with campfire grilled, hickory smoked, thick sliced bacon. 

Like a Missouri tornado spiraling out of control; there were several distinct choices that brought us to the current predicament. 

1.      Butt Pirates responsible for water bring a case of 12oz bottles which are perfect for mass storage so left several behind (insert sarcasm font).
2.      Blame it on drinking too much, too soon or on not bringing enough booze but campers concerned about their buzz and their quality of sleep shared a xanax.  ChaCha says it causes mud butt leading to dehydration so it must be true!  All I know is that I shat in the woods for the first time in my life and was prepared to drink water from the Hillsborough River.
3.      In our disorientation, we removed the food from its safe perch in the tree and stored it next to the tent inviting small forest creatures to make off with most of our breakfast supplies.

I never told anyone that all the plastic packages of food had been chewed through and that I collected English muffins, bacon, hotdogs, chocolate and garbage throughout a 50 yard radius of the campsite.  If the early bird gets the worm, I had all intentions of savoring this night crawler until just after everyone was finished eating! 

For being a perfectionist, my plans are often foiled.  For anyone who knows me, you dang sure well know that I cooked the remaining bacon.  I toasted a few English muffins and we waited for the orangina eggs.  No water… therefore there was no interest in muffins or bacon.  I pout silently while I eat my own bacon and orangina stuffed English muffin.  Quite frankly, I don’t give a f*!k what tried to eat our food the night before or how thirsty I am because I grew up working on the family dairy farm where I ceremoniously scooped dead flies from my morning cup of coffee because they liked the sugar and I needed the caffeine.

Did I mention that we went to Lupton’s Barbecue Buffet!? Long story short: Zephyrhills version is not the same as the Temple Terrace version that many of you faithful followers have previously read about. The building spelled out the difference in bold print on the sign hanging where not to long before it hung the brown and yellow letters of Golden Corral. Temple Terrace is “Lupton’s Fatman’s Barbecue Buffet,” while Zephyrhills is “Lupton’s Barbecue Buffet.” While I could go on to tell you about the wet and dry ribs, the pathetic attempt at “Carolina BBQ,” (and my moral dilemma about not caring enough to provide the historical record of North vs. South Carolina BBQ and the regions of BBQ within NC and all the finite details that makes each so wonderful), the tasty crabby cakes, peach cobbler and engaging brunch conversations covering topics from cat placenta to Tim McGraw; it really just isn’t necessary. The original Fat Man’s reigns supreme.