Wiener Gluttony

As planned, the Spouse and I had a day of backsliding from our recent vege / pescetarianism, culminating in a delectable meat orgy of sorts. To celebrate lucky anniversary #13 (a few days early), we went to Chicago to eat at Hot Doug's (The Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium). The wait was two hours, an hour and a half of which was outside. February 28th in Chicago was, let us say, a bit brisk. But alas, the legend of these great wieners motivated us, plus after a while we were pretty much numb anyway. And banding together with other masochists is always jovial. The delirium of near-hypothermia helps with the jovial.

After a wait like that, we were ready for some hot wiener action, and boy did we ever get it. It may be a hot dog and sausage joint, but there is some real culinarification (shut up, it is too a word--I used it in a sentence, you understand my meaning, ergo it is a word) going on in there. Below is a shot of our $36 worth of fanciness. Clockwise from top left: The Salma Hayek (andouille sausage); Pear and Port Wine Elk Sausage with cranberry mustard and bleu cheese drizzled with honey; Gyros Sausage with spinach raita, kalamata olives and haloumi cheese; Duck Fat Fries (omg, so wrong, and yet so delicious); Spicy Thai Chicken Sausage with Srirachi mustard and sesame-seaweed salad; and two Chicago Dogs.

Close up of the Gyro:

It was all delicious, though I was especially fond of the Elk and the Thai. The Elk was a collision of strong flavors, tempered with sweetness, and was to my Midwestern palette some serious gourmet shit. The Thai was satisfyingly spicy, plus it came smothered in day-glo green alien tentacles.

After the veritable meatpalooza, we waddled out to the car and headed North. After a yummy Caribou Coffee (way cooler ambience inside than the Green Devil), we entered Wisconsin, for a whirlwind shopping trip at the Mars Cheese Castle. Much aged cheddar was purchased. We drove around a bit, too--Wisconsin is sorta pretty, and I bet it is beautiful in the summer.

On the way back home we swung by a Baja Fresh, since ours went out of business. I have never been so disinterested in eating Baja in my life, as I was still stuffed, but hey, we were planning ahead. We chucked our Baja in the cooler and headed home. The long way, because we were so busy riding our meat-high and singing along with the CD player that we actually managed to miss I65 south. Yep, missed it. But eh, we weren't on a schedule, so we just went to South Bend and picked up SR 31. And some South Bend Chocolate Company snacks.

So, in summary, we had a very gluttonlicious Saturday.

We're planning on heading back to Chicago in a couple months to visit Shedd Aquarium; on that trip we're going to hit the Chicago Diner for some tasty vegetarian cooking.

And at the grocery store today, I bought strictly vegetarian fare. I don't feel bad about my nummy Saturday, but I also don't feel any desire to revert to full-time carnivore mode. Plus holy shit is it a lot cheaper!

Now I'm off to celebrate the rest of my long anniversary weekend, by sitting around attempting to metabolize the 47lbs of food I have crammed in my head-hole in the last 36 hours. Beer is a metabolic agent, right? (lie to me, baby)

Seacrest out.

PS--I didn't get a shot of the sign alongside I94 in Wisconsin that said "Bong Recreation Area," but since it was the same exit as the Cheese Castle I found this sign. Tee hee.

Meat.

Ah yes, that supposedly-gray stuff jiggling about in my cranium. Brainy meaty goodness. The metaphorical muscle that can always be metaphorically flexed, no matter the shape of the body encasing it. Only lately I feel like, while still delicious zombie fodder, my brain has become flaccid. Intellectually atrophied. Boring.

So, this is me, shirking actual academically intellectual pursuits in favor of poking my slumpy brain with a stick, in the hopes that I can at least moosh it into fun shapes from time to time to create a comforting illusion of flexion.

Only I'm sorta tired right now, and I don't have a stick handy, so maybe I'll start the poking next time. This time, I think I'll just talk about meat.

I am a meat hypocrite.

More and more, when I go to the grocery, the slabs o’ meat just creep me out. They look more analogous to people-parts than they used to…hey, if I peeled MY shoulder it would look just like that roast! Or they look more…real. Wow, that is an actual cross-section of a dead thing’s body! I can see the saw marks in the bone! I’m not the squeamish type, either, so I find it intriguing that my brain should choose to toy with me like this. Is this some dawning ethical realization? Or was I bitten by a hippie? Head trauma? I dunno. I DO know that fish do not creep me out, and I am not prepared to live in a world without sushi. Or cheese. So I am down with fish and crustacean slaughter and udder exploitation. And I’m pretty sure that under the right circumstances I would still be a bacon whore (said circumstances being the presence of bacon). A little too hypocritical to claim late-blooming ethics. And I have no visible bite wounds or head lumps, so I guess it is just…me. Cool—fewer rules that way. So I am, at the moment, a pescetarian—no land-meat, but I eat sea kittens* and dairy. And duh, vegetables. Die, vegetables, die!

In a burst of bonus hypocrisy, this weekend I am going with the Spouse to Chicago to shamelessly eat at Hot Doug’s—The Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium. Hey—my mutation, my exceptions to my rules.

Does any of this mean anything? Is my pescetarianism like the bisexuality of my food orientation? And if so, is it the real thing or a comfortable stepping stone to ease my transition into vegetarianism?

I dunno. But hey, my blog is no longer naked, so that's something.

Now I gotta go find me a stick.

Peace out.

*What dumbfuckery is this, you ask? Well, Peta wants you to call fish "sea kittens" so as to render them less savory and more cuddly-cute. Seriously--I couldn't make this shit up.