Livers

Livers. They're delicious and I like to eat them. And I'm not speaking strictly of super expensive, fancy-schmancy foie gras either. In fact, I'm not talking about that at all. I'm waxin' poetic today over good old fashioned fried livers. Give me a cold ass beer and a plate of fried chicken livers and I'm happy as the proverbial pig in the proverbial shit. Give me a cold ass beer and some fried rabbit livers, and I'm a fatter, happier pig in fatter, happier shit. Now give me a whole mess of cold ass beer, then a plate full of fried rabbit livers and I'm King Pig. I'll go running around salutating everyone like my name is Wilbur and I've just learned that I won't be getting the axe come Fall. And I'll tell you why I like livers so much. I like to eat them because I respect those little guys.

Livers aren't giving up without a fight, and that's why they get my respect. Toss a handful of livers into a big rolling vat of grease and you better watch the F out. It's "Fire in the hole!" time, comrades. Livers naturally have a certain amount of water in them, so when that water hits the hot grease, a small little eruption occurs, sending little bullets of scorching hot napalm-like grease directly at my face. They're going to get eaten up, sure. But they're going to take someone down with them before it happens. I love that about them. Livers are like that rag tag bunch of mercenaries that never got the memo that the war is over. Whatever animal they came from is dead. The war is over, but they're still fighting. If fried livers went searching for Private Ryan, they wouldn't have lost Wade and Caparzo. They would've found him and got him the Hell, home, in half the time.

Livers rule.

Big Sandwich: Second Helpings

Monday is the day of the Big Sandwich. In fact, "Mon-" in Latin is "big" and "-day" is "sandwich." That's true, too. So, naturally, on this past Day of the Big Sandwich, formerly known as Monday, I made a Big Sandwich.

It was a particularly delightful Big Sandwich. It was the standard recipe: pork, onions, something green, and messy sauce. This was the recipe for the very first Big Sandwich (it included apples too, I think) and is the ole standby of Big Sandwiches. After we layed siege to the Big Sandwich (and smote it mightily, I might add), Craig remarked that I should give that particular Big Sandwich varietal a name.

I refused.

Here's why: the Big Sandwich has a name; it's the Big Sandwich. It doesn't matter how you make your Big Sandwich, as long as it's a sandwich and it's real big. It doesn't matter if you make yours like I make mine, it's not about names or recognition or any of that. The Big Sandwich isn't about me. I'm not the Big Sandwich. The Big Sandwich is bigger than me. The Big Sandwich is about people getting together and making sandwiches. That are really big. On Mondays.

Long live the Big Sandwich.