I Sure Do Like That Potted Meat

What is it about gloved portions of pigmeat boiled in beer and seared over a grill that makes it so fucking good?

I don’t know why I got the gumption to cook such a thing while in the supermarket. Mmm. Brats in beer and grilled. Dad’s relish. Red beans and rice. I think I have some canned French cut beans at home. That would go well with this Four Brothers wine.

Either it’s because I was fucking starving by the time I got home or because it was just that fucking good. Oh, my, god. My buddy Justin taught me how to boil brats in beer and then sear. That’s one of at least four reasons he’s still one of my four best buddies in the world. He taught me how to boil meat in beer.

I talked to another on that short list tonight. The doc is good. He is a dad. That’s weird. This fella I met in about what, 1984? And we palled up based on an equally perverse sense of humor and an equally odd taste in music and an equal sense of desperation and wonder when it came to wimmen. And we’re still pals and he’s a married dad, and that’s weird. Awesome, but weird. Either way, look for me to fly south next month sometime to finally meet his little girl.

My vacation was excellent. The time off gave me the solar plexus soul injection that I needed. As a result, I’m eating better and sleeping better and hoping to cook more and live more and make merry fun on the stage. I can’t explain it better than that except to say that if you feel like you need a vacation, you probably do. I needed this one for years.

Life is an abstract. My natural inclination is to try to create it as a matrix. But while I’m diligently setting up the rows and columns, life itself is throwing paint and clay and poop and vegetables at me and at my perfect table.

My biggest challenge is to conduct the negotiations.

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