Week 34: (Ryan, Guest Writer): The Bearded Quahog

Things I learned while visiting Michelle’s family in Cape Cod this week:

-          The letter “O” is pronounced as an “AW.” Example: Cape Cawd

-          Words that end with an “A” occasionally acquire an R. Example: Tamper

-          Oaks Bluff, Martha’s Vineyard is for black people.  The rare breeds that swim,  
           enunciate clearly and ride appropriately sized bikes. 

-          The shellfish I’ve always known to be a clam, is actually a quahog.

-          Fried clam strips are delicious but they cheat you out of the whole belly.

-          The beach is for laying out, not swimming. It’s too cold.

-          Provincetown makes Gaybor look straight.

Michelle’s family lives in Falmouth, located in the armpit of the Cape Cod arm. Cape Cod itself is not a town; Falmouth is one of the many towns in Cape Cod. Her dad picked us up at Logan airport Friday night, with the top down in his Saab convertible. He proclaimed it was a beautiful night, to which I could not disagree. However, the fact that we left Tampa three hours earlier where the heat index was 106 degrees, the 66 degree breeze had me looking for flakes of snow.

We weren’t the only ones in need of a ride that night. Michelle’s brother Chris had friends in town and they were bombed.  Shortly after arriving at the Cape house, Michelle’s mother, Denise, donned her chauffeur cap and was out the door.  Hurricane Chris blew into the house with a 20ft squeegee he stole from the bar parking lot to use as a joust alongside the aforementioned Saab.  My dad was a man of few words and although he rarely told me he was proud of me, he didn’t have to.  I could see it in his eyes.  That was not the look I saw in Denise’s eyes that night. 

I’m here for two reasons:  The infamous Falmouth Road Race and Denise’s famous stuffed quahogs.  I’ve been hearing about these things since the day I met Michelle and I am excited!  I assumed my responsibilities in these activities included running and eating which happen to be my two favorite hobbies.   Little did I know, I’d actually been recruited for harvesting.

I’ve never been much of a hunter or a fisherman but I’m not ignorant.  I know that food doesn’t actually come from the grocery store.  Growing up on a dairy farm in eastern NC, I learned at a very young age that steaks and hamburger came from the cows that I considered pets.  Quahogging is more hunting than fishing but probably most accurately described as gathering.  They live in the muck.  It’s absolutely disgusting work involving a rake, a floating basket, shallow brackish water, four feet of muck and hazards like spider crabs and eels.  No one told me about the eels.  If Falmouth had a home depot, I’d suggest picking up a crew of illegal illegals for this job. 

The bearded clam is an extinct species that lived off the coast of Britain.  Its beard was prized for making beer.  It wasn’t until after its extinction that brew masters began using hops making the beer we are familiar with today.  Diving and digging through the muck of a Cape Cod inlet, I discovered a new breed.  Michelle emerged from the murky abyss with a fresh coat of muck clinging to her body hair. A fine black line ran across her lip, down her chin and continued to her naval. Disgusting…  In addition to Meatball, Michelle’s new nickname is The Bearded Quahog. 

This week’s Sunday Meatball Chronicle involves neither brunch nor a restaurant but it’s Sunday so game on. It’s the 39^th running of the Mother Fuckin Falmouth Road Race!  In 1973 a few guys ran the 7.3 mile stretch from a bar in Woods Hole to another bar in East Falmouth.  Over 11,000 ran this year and I finished 1074^th place which is okay I suppose but there is plenty of room for improvement.  It’s a money race so it attracts elite runners from around the world.  This year’s winner came from Kenya and he finished the route in 31:37. DISGUSTING! In good pompous American fashion, Falmouth awards the fastest overall runners and then the top American finishers.  There were no personal records for any of us but it didn’t stop us from celebrating. 

The Boyd family post-race party is as important of a tradition and nearly as epic as the race.  Seventy-two degrees, light humidity, tables full of food, a wine barrel stuffed with ice and beer, a hammock and new friends make for an amazing day.  Truth be told, I don’t like running but I love that it enables me to eat and drink to my hearts content, guilt-free.  The spread was amazing and it began with the spoils of the previous day’s haul: stuffed quahogs.  We feasted on marinated and grilled steak, cheeseburgers, red sweet/spicy Chinese sausage, lasagna, grilled chicken breasts and army of creamy salads and sides.  I’m a fan of “drive-by grazing.”  Drive-by grazing is a great tactic for sampling throughout the day without showing everyone how many plates you’ve used. 

The rain held off, the beer stayed cold, the stories embellished and we all got sloppy.  The 2^nd generation of runners/partiers transferred the party from the backyard to a boat at a nearby dock.  I’d love to tell you about the rest of the night but even after a review of the pictures, I’m still in the dark.  Let’s just say it included pu pu platters for 16, scorpion bowls, dancing with chicken wings, and a Glock. End of story.

Week 33: Catchin’ the Spirit!

As I sit in a tastefully decorated wooden pew, eating macaroni and cheese, I anxiously await the arrival of Mr. Jesus. Ryan and I are in the final stretch of a weekend getaway to Whorelando and the trip has been nothing short of fantastic.  It is amazing what you can experience in just 48 hours after being removed from the Tampa bubble. Living in Ybor, I am prone to ass clowns. But marching ducks, a winning scratch ticket, bourbon-infused sweet tea vodka, mimosas and now a Sunday gospel brunch…. Have I died and gone to heaven?

The whites are low in attendance today, but black and white alike are uniting today, in one bible thumping concert hall, under God. I’m not going to be personally uniting with anyone because I’m in my own private pew on the second floor balcony, overlooking Jesus’ dance party downstairs.

Let me try and describe this.  House of Blues, Orlando. A concert hall/temple of sorts. A stage surrounded by white-clothed tables, a second floor with a balcony and pews. God’s children everywhere, catchin’ the spirit. One woman caught the spirit so hard she found it necessary to wear an all white body suit and dance in a one woman exorcism party of some sort. No really...watch the video clip below.  

Ryan keeps finding it funny to dance and clap uncontrollably and the sad part is, he actually fits in. This experience is 100% preposterous. I keep taking pictures with my phone and sending them to my circle of unholy friends and the only replies I receive back are “what’s wrong with you,” “you’re an idiot,” and “where the hell are you, Sister Act?”   

Our backdrop is an endless buffet that I can’t get enough of. This beats Holy Communion fo’ sho’.  Bread crumb topped mac n’ cheese, fish sticks, eggs, sausage, bacon, collard greens, bbq chicken, jambalaya, potato salad, biscuits and gravy, waffles, strawberries, creamy broccoli salad with crispy bacon, cocktail shrimp and remoulade, a carving station with prime rib and ham and a dessert station pies, cobblers and bread puddin’ with whiskey cream sauce.  I broke up my bacon and mixed it into the macaroni and cheese like a real fat ass. It was to die for. Ryan inhaled 4 full plates of food.

Surely this is not serious. But as I look around the room I realize this is fact serious. I can pregame the apostle’s show with mimosas, practice gluttony, and party with a bunch of black people…. And get away with it. Praise the lord!  Earlier this morning we watched a bunch of live ducks make a red carpet grand entrance into the Peabody Hotel lobby, led by a marching “Duck Master” (named Donald) and I thought that was strange—not anymore.

 

Week 32: Pach's Place, Pronounced Pa-ches, No Rappers Here.

Ok, maybe you’ve noticed, maybe you haven’t…. But after, thirty-one straight weeks of brunch, we actually skipped eating last Sunday. It was an all-liquid Sunday Funday for John-Paul’s Birthday Extravaganza. He turned 28 and only John-Paul and his boyfriend Sean think that turning 28 is a big deal. I, like other adults in the world, stopped celebrating and arranging birthday adventures at the age of 13. Most people just wait for milestones like “21” or “80.” I didn’t buy him a present. Being his friend and putting up with his gay antics is my everyday present.

We surprised John-Paul with a group trip to Adventure Island, the wonderfully overpriced, drug infested, water world located in Tampa, Florida. If you are looking for a soaking wet degenerate, go to Adventure Island. Adults in life vests, recirculated piss pools, and mediocre security that permits you to sneak your own booze into the park…They’ve got it all. Great place.

It was a fun day but I hope we didn’t let him down. Part of me thinks he was expecting more. Before arriving at the water park, we were all waiting outside of a convenience store for everyone to finish packing up their road sodas. A state cop approached us on his way into the store. John-Paul immediately got excited and screamed “WOOHOOO, YOU ALL BOUGHT ME A STRIPPER!” Fortunately the cop ignored his incongruity, but John-Paul looked slightly disappointed upon realizing it was not a naked law enforcement fraud. Now that I think about it---that was a ridiculous thought. Do you know your friends at all JP? We would never purchase an overweight stripper of non-white decent. Get a grip. Adventure Island was much more entertaining anyway.

So, Sunday has come once again and Ryan and I are back to business: brunch. We’re on our way to Pach’s Place on Bay to Bay Boulevard because we haven’t been this wonderful establishment in almost a year. As I enter Pach’s, memories flood my brain…. flood my brain like nasty recirculated sewage water, definitely not beautiful blue tides. I think back on who I used to be and it’s hard to imagine that today I’m sitting here, respectably dining with a boyfriend and a leg free of probation electronics. Joking. That is not actually a staple of my past, although it should have been.

Pach’s Place was our go-to Sunday brunch joint in college. There were 6 of us Holly Hangovers that used to go together, until one week when we made too many Hellen Keller jokes in public and offended our friend Christine. We then became a pack of 5. We were never sober and we were rarely dressed appropriately. More often than not we’d be wearing our clothes from the night before or even worse, pajamas. We’d always have to make a slight detour to pick up my roommate on the way. She tended to go missing at night. We’d find her waiting on a curb somewhere, beautiful as ever, and ready for coffee. She was a gem.

The ultimate fail of Pach’s Place came my senior year of college. I had been partying all weekend (all year, really) and my parents were in town and wanted to take me to brunch. The waitress sat us at a table in a high-traffic area near the door and I took the outside seat near the aisle, letting my parents hug the wall. While sitting there, minding my own hangover and trying to have an adult conversation with my parents, a woman came darting through the front door with her baby thrown over her shoulder. I felt something splash and start to slightly drip down my forehead. My mother’s face didn’t need to provide any explanation. The tiny human had puked directly on my head. At breakfast.

Anyway, not even projectile vomit throughout my hair could stop me from loving Pach’s Place. They are one of the most fair-priced establishments in South Tampa and their greasy diner atmosphere sure hits home. They even have a waitress who resembles Dolly Parton and she’s here today. I usually get their massive omelets but I’ll mix it up. For $4.85 there’s a fabulous combo of 2 eggs, 2 sausage patties, toast and grits. DONE! Ryan ordered a fabulous combo as well but his included country fried steak with sausage gravy, home fries, a biscuit, 2 eggs over medium and a side of smoked chicken/apple sausage, What the f is smoked chicken apple sausage!?   

It is at this point I would like to review the food but I am too distracted by the man sitting across from us with his hand up the leg of his shorts, scratching his balls. I wonder if he is aware the tables have no clothes and I’m getting a peek at the mouse in the cage. He’s wearing a Snow White shirt that says “Don’t Worry, Be Grumpy,” and let’s be honest dude, the only thing worse than an adult in a Disney t-shirt, is an adult who engages in public scrotum scratching. I’m watching you, you swine.

Speaking of swine, my sausage patties were frigan amazing, but I can’t say the same for Ryan’s “chicken apple sausage.” Although the flavor was great, I couldn’t stand wondering whether each crunchy bite was a chunk of apple or a chunk of cartilage.  The grits were fantastic as well. I took my scrambled eggs and sausage and used the toast to make my own breakfast sandwiches like a true food monster. Ryan’s country fried steak and gravy was slightly orgasmic and so were his home fries. You never let us down Pach’s. I’m glad we finally got around to visiting you once again. I purposely forgot to order the potato pancakes because I’m doing this thing called “watching my weight”… so I’ll be back!