Sunday, November 4, 2007
At three o'clock, eons after lunch and a lifetime before dinner, Tamalehawk needs to fill the growing void that is his hunger. Often it's a tortilla wrapped around something strange and broiled. Occasionally it's something wrenched directly from its jar, perhaps plucked from bottomless briny depths. On this day, a small bolt of inspiration led to this: a peanut butter, blackberry jam, shredded apple and cinnamon sandwich. It's not often that Tamalehawk gracefully handles the haunting chime of three o'clock, and this brief bit of guiltless guile made him flash a proud smile.
Critical update: Tamalehawk has secured what he was sure would remain forever in his imagination - an authentic copy of Seven Hundred Sandwiches. A remnant from the volatile sandwich culture of a nation poised on deep depression, this cherished artifact now claims a place of distinct honor in Tamalehawk's heart. One need only to glimpse the foreword to realize the true power of this tome; as it clearly notes the "constant and insistent demand for new ideas in sandwiches, new combinations in fillings, and new and attractive architectural plans for construction." Tamalehawk is filled with a renewed sense of purpose, determined to continue the groundbreaking work of his ancestors.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Sometimes in a great while, you just have all the ingredients you need to make a thing worth really eating. Tamalehawk had the onions, lettuce, cheese and turkey to make this monster come together beneath the crack of lightning, lurching to life in a frenzy of forming, chopping, spreading, and sizzling. Too big for its mortal bun, the burger broke free of its earthly binds and clawed its way into legend.
It was this sad day that Tamalehawk used the final few drops of Worcestershire sauce, causing the ghosts of both Lea and Perrins to gasp in horror. The crucial cure-all, a certain stand-by to all mashed meat mixtures, sat sad and empty in its crinkled paper shroud. Tamalehawk winced as he knew he might forget to put this shadowy staple back on the grocery list. All the best sauces go unremembered in the clank and clamor of the supermarket. Nonetheless, the sauce made a proud and final performance, the likes of which no man can forget.
Chocolate and bacon fight ferociously for the coveted title of Best Ever, each outdoing the other time and again in ways it can make a person feel simultaneously awful and ecstatic upon consumption. Tamalehawk long ago resigned that from perfection always dangles a price tag. He can't blame these foods for achieving these forbidden aspirations, their continual dominance of the sweet and savory worlds. To do so would be like blaming the sun for making the world too beautiful.
The Dutch, for example, excel in the realm of chocolate, harnessing fully its powers to be shaped into all letters of the alphabet. Tamalehawk thanks them for realizing that chocolate and text are a marriage long overlooked, and that indeed all messages of importance should be spelled boldly in cocoa. Don't be too lazy to get that glass of milk, either.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Tamalehawk, perpetually plagued by persistent impatience, has never used his slow-cooker. He prefers the panic and pacing of skillet sorcery. It's the same reason he doesn't bake, really, when you get down to it. But bakeries and barbacue rank right at the top of any list of weaknesses he might endeavor to make. Thankfully, Ladyhawk specializes in patience.
So, with a bite, Tamalehawk again realized this fact of life. Time plus the patience can bring about a lot of worthwhile things. Axl Rose knew it, though by then it was on Lies and everyone already knew it wasn't quite as good as Appetite for Destruction, and that really nothing ever could be, and so patience didn't really sate their appetite for destruction in that case, even considering and for some especially because of its protracted whistle solo. But the point still holds true. Slow-cooked pork is pretty great.