I am NOT posting a link to this site because of my feelings about the candidates in the Democratic primary, I swear to god. I just think it's kinda funny, no matter who you support. Hit refresh a few times, and I guarantee you will see something that will make you laugh out loud. My favorite was "Hillary put the snakes on the plane."
So I'm in the process of clearing out a huge cache of old pics. (And yes, I know that I owe certain friends uploads of certain pics from a certain wedding, and that I promised (myself, anyways) that I'd get it done before their first anniversary, and that said anniversary has come and gone during this lovely month of February, but I swear I will do it soon.)
But anyway, starting at the most recent and moving back in time chronologically, here are some shots we took a few weeks ago when we smoked up the ribs that came with our piglet.
Because, shockingly, a pig comes with two sets of ribs (and imagine, we didn't have to pay any extra for the porcine anatomy lesson!), and because we were dividing the sucker three ways, we decided to cook the ribs and share them at a group pig love-in. We hosted the event, and ginned up our charcoal grill as a smoker for one rack of ribs, which we dry-rubbed at the beginning and wet-mopped at the end. For the other rack, we did a tomato curry paste and slow-roasted them in the oven.
Here's the scene early in the afternoon, before our pig-loving comrades arrived. You can see the smoker and our smoking paraphernalia (so to speak) in the background. In front is the firepit, all ready to get lit up for some late night warmth and S'mores making. I'm on the side there, on the phone (RUDE. I know.):
This is the same scene from the other angle, which I think gives you a better sense of how GORGEOUS the weather was that day. IN JANUARY. Gah, love the climate here:
Here's a close-up of the smoke pouring out of our two-bit smoker:
By the way, if you were wondering how we put the smoker together so you can play along at home, here's how to do it. First, we loaded up one side of the bottom grate with about a dozen charcoal briquettes (that we lit in a chimney) and a handful of hickory chips that had been soaking in water. Across from the charcoal (also on the bottom grate) was a cheap aluminum pan filled with water. The meat itself was on a piece of heavy-duty tinfoil over the water and away from the heat so that it would cook as slowly as possible. We kept all of the vents open to moderate the heat, and used an oven thermometer to monitor the temp, leaving the top off for a few minutes if it went above 300 degrees. Every hour or so we added a few more briquettes and another handful of hickory. It took about four hours, and although it was tender, it could've stood another hour of cooking for maximum falling-off-the-bone-ness. Here's a shot of the inside of the smoker and the ribs:
And, in case you were wondering how these ribs compared to the ribs out of the oven, the oven ribs were tender-er (not sure why, because the cooking time and temp was comparable), but the smoky flavor of the smoked ribs won the day. We had the ribs with a pot-luck complement of sides from mac and cheese to rice and beans, but unfortunately, no pics of the final dinner, because we were just TOO hungry to get the camera by the time we sat down to eat. Next time, I promise!
It's not all that clear to me that the world really needs these. But whatever, it certainly is a major feat of undergarment engineering!
J: Why do you have that look on your face?
M: I just took a big swig of your vodka rocks thinking it was my gin and tonic. It was so bad, I almost spit it back into your glass.
J: That's gross. At least you could spit it into the sink.
M: But I didn't want to waste it!
We are now deep into the heart of the presidential primary season, and many of you probably have already gotten some practice at pushing voting buttons (or pulling levers, depending on how assbackward your polling place is). And if you're like me, that one voting opportunity has you all riled up and ready to do more for your country, to contribute more to this national civics lesson in which we are all engaged, to wrap your arms around democracy and squeeze it tight.
Well, here's your opportunity to put that sentiment to good work. If you head over to Carol's blog, you will find that she is running a contest for the best and worst Valentine's Day stories. And my story about kissing a fish, which you can find complete with photographic evidence here, is up for an award for best Valentine's Day. YIPPEE!!!
So GO VOTE (polls close at noon on Thursday). Right now, I'm lagging a bit in the polls, but I believe that with your support I can reach out across the divisions that rend this nation and bring us all together in support of fishophilia. Vote early, vote often, and I promise that if I am elected, I will bring this country the change it has been clamoring for for eight long years.
Umm, or something like that.
UPDATE: Despite all of your support, I couldn't manage to break the stranglehold on the voting held by H, a woman whose husband gave her a Valentine's bouquet of "roses" made out of athletic socks. Seriously, how can you compete with that?
One thing we have not had much of since leaving New York is steakhouse steak -- you know, that dry-aged goodness with creamed spinach and potatoes and a nice sturdy red wine alongside. Now, we haven't been to any steakhouses in Nashville, so I'm not about to start speculating on the state of the steak in Nashville and run the risk of maligning the steakhouses here, all I'm saying is that we haven't had it in a while, which probably has more to do with (1) my newfound lack of an expense account and (2) my newfound lack of a law firm salary, as with anything else.
So when we started talking about what to make for Valentine's Dinner, J-P (the former veg, god love him!) said he wanted a nice dry-aged steak. Well, you don't have to ask me twice. Homemade steakhouse dinner for two, please!
We started off with a couple of negronis and oysters on the half-shell, which we shucked ourselves so they'd be fresh as could be:
Miraculously, the shucking did not necessitate a Valentine's night trip to the ER (nor did the oysters themselves), though I suppose THAT would have made for an interesting post. The oysters were tasty, slurpy, briny wonderfulness, and it turns out we got 15 for the price of 12 because there were a few siamese twins in the bunch:
After oysters, we moved on to the main deal. We shared a single (ginormous) T-bone, which kinda looks heart shaped, no?
We seared, roasted, carved, creamed, mashed, and, yes, even flambeed our way to this outstanding meal, which we paired with an Italian red we'd been saving:
Here's a close-up of the plate. The filet part of the T-bone is on the right, and the strip part is on the left. It's amazing how two pieces of meat that live right next to each other can taste so different. Different, but both great, although I'm admittedly a little partial to the strip. 
Unfortunately, we have no pictures of dessert, but it was decisively underwhelming. I made chocolate pot de creme, which is J-P's favorite, but decided not to use my mother-in-law's tried and true recipe, which in J-P's mind is the be-all-and-end-all pot de creme. Instead, I used a Gale Gand recipe which YOU WOULD THINK would be awesome because, I don't know, Gale Gand is a DESSERT GODDESS, but it came out more like pot de chocolate soup than pot de creme. Not that it tasted bad, of course, even choclate soup is still, well, chocolate, especially since we used the good Valrhona, but it certainly wasn't what we were hoping for.
And finally, if you happen to be wondering what became of the lobster tails we won, we decided we had enough gluttony for one night, and that we'd save the tails for when my sister is visiting next week, and maybe J-P will microwave himself a burrito or something.
Today J-P and I stopped by Whole Foods to pick up a few things for our Valentine's Day dinner, because we don't eat out on V-Day as a general rule. As we headed back toward the fish counter, a very perky employee beckoned us to come kiss a fish (yes, kiss a fish), for which we would receive, in exchange, a lobster tail. FOR FREE. JUST FOR KISSING A FISH. There were lots of people standing around gawking at the fish, but they were all squicky about actually kissing the thing. But not me, people, NOT ME. I have no such hang-ups. To my mind, the act of kissing a fish is a minor price to pay for a free package of Ho-Hos, let alone a FREE LOBSTER TAIL. So I marched right up, pulled my hair back, and laid a fat one on a wolf fish named Scott Baiowolf (you can't say those Whole Foods people don't try):
It was really no big deal -- slimy and cold, yes, but I've certainly kissed worse. But then I got greedy, and decided I was not happy with just one lobster tail. Since there were two of us, we had the opportunity to score not just one, but TWO free lobster tails. After some cajoling and the promise of sexual favors, I convinced J-P to kiss the fish. Since this pic is a close-up, you can really get a good look at the guy (also, J-P did not actually tongue the fish, he was just mugging for the camera for comic effect):
So now we have two lobster tails just waiting to be devoured, perhaps in a cream sauce over fresh pasta, hmmmm? But I know what you're probably thinking -- hey Melissa, isn't J-P allergic to lobster?! Ummmm. Why yes. What a good memory you have! J-P is allergic to lobster! Which I guess just means more lobster for me. *Shrugs* OOPSIE!
But really, in all seriousness, I am one lucky broad. I mean, J-P kissed a fish to win a lobster tail that HE CAN'T EVEN EAT, all for me! What a guy. J-P, I love you, and I will kiss a fish for you anytime you want!
Happy Valentine's Day!
Last week, shortly after he arrived in Arizona to cover the Super Bowl, sports journalist par excellence Michael Wilbon suffered a heart attack. A few short days later, Wilbon wrote this extraordinary piece reflecting on his health, his life, his future, and, most importantly, the profound relationships he has developed during his career. He reveals how so many people, many of them sports stars he has criticized in the past in his column and on television, reached out to offer their best wishes for his recovery. Wilbon was quite obviously moved by this and offered these wonderful words to express what he has gained from this experience:
The lesson learned is probably that a bad pass on third and 12, a missed jump shot at the buzzer or even a prolonged disagreement with a teammate doesn't make that the dominant theme of a man's life. It's not like I won't make a critical observation about Kobe in the playoffs, if necessary, just that such comments ought to be expressed in context and not cavalierly used to form larger judgments about a person's life. At the very least there ought to be an acknowledgment of a sense of compassion and humanity that aren't to be taken for granted.
This man is a class act, and I hope the world may benefit from his thoughtful commentary for years to come.
Oh yeah, and while we're on the topic of sports, GO GIANTS!
