Her name is NO!

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I had just sat down with a cocktail and a book when Cutter stumbles up to me yelping and panting.

Get her off, he says, and half-turns, yelping at little Lola.

I shift slightly and lean slightly so I can see around Cutter and I see Lola latched onto one of his rear legs.

Grrrrrr, says Lola, shaking her head back and forth, trying to pull Cutter’s leg backwards towards her.

NO!, I yell, jumping up and knocking over my drink and clapping my hands together to get her attention. (Actually it used to be LOLA NO! until our prissy little vet told us we should never include our pet’s name in a reprimand, but only when we call her to come or when we are praising her because it confuses the pet and makes her anxious. Anxious? Really?)

Fuck, I say, scooping up my glass with one hand and reaching for Lola with the other.

Arf!, says Lola, happily letting go of Cutter’s leg and latching onto my finger instead.

NO!, I yell again. (This is pretty much how it’s been going nowadays. From the time we get up in the morning, getting ready for work and walks and feedings; and then again in the evenings until Lola grudgingly and exhaustedly falls asleep, it’s been a fairly constant fusillade of NO!!- Except when we slip or when we’re really angry and then it’s LOLA NO!!! again and screw anxious)

Freed, Cutter clambers up onto the couch to escape Lola and I clean up my spilled drink and make another. I had just sat back down to relax and read when one of my brand new $89 flip flops rockets across the living room, Lola’s stumpy little legs pumping furiously.

LOLA NO!!!!! I scream as I leap up and give chase, knocking over my drink again.

 

 

 

Meet Lola.

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WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT???? Cutter said.

This is Lola, your new little playmate, I said.

arf, said Lola.

Cutter stopped staring at Lola and turned his gaze on me. Whatever made you think I’d want to play with a rat? he said.

I sighed. It’s not a rat, it’s a puppy.

Cutter looked back down at Lola. It’s a rat, he said.

It’s a puppy.

Rat.

Puppy.

Rat.

Puppy.

Cutter paused and said, Ok, let’s suppose it is a puppy. Whatever made you think I’d want to play with a puppy?

Well, I, I mean we, Miss Carol and me, thought you might be lonely, I said.

Cutter looked over at Lola, watching her teethe on one of the metal barstools. He sat and cleared his throat.

So let me get this straight, he said. A year and a half after you take Tug somewhere and don’t bring him back, you figure I might be lonely so you bring me a rat to play with.

It’s a puppy, I said.

And, well, um, yeah, it does seem kinda silly when you put it that way, I said.

Indeed, Cutter said, as we watched Lola wrestle with the welcome mat, dragging it across the hallway floor.

grrr, said Lola.

 

 

Makin’ Bacon II. or 2.

So, does bacon really make everything better?

Hellthefuckyeah.

I’d thought I’d be updating the makin’ bacon experiment earlier, but it takes a surprising amount of time to cure, cook, and eat four pounds of bacon unless you’re doing nothing else with your life.

This is what happened.

I brought the big slab of pork belly home and un-rolled it carpet-like and stared at it. Then I cut that big slab of pork belly into thirds. And stared at it some more. Then I cut the thirds in half and figured maybe I was onto something. I wrapped four of the pieces for the freezer and considered the other two double pounders.

First I had to cut the skin off. Pigs have a really tough, really thick skin that you don’t want as a part your bacon experience. I think the skin’s good for either pork cracklins’ or making your trash smelly.

I chose smelly trash.

Using a fish filet knife I urged the thick skin off of our slabs of bacon and by the time I was done, Miss Carol had the curing spices ready and we coated them and settled them into gallon-size zip-lock bags and put them in the refrigerator and high-fived each other.

We were makin’ bacon, baby.

We flipped the slabs daily to spread the curing and waited impatiently. I decided to name them Test Slab 1A and Test Slab 1B and Miss Carol rolled her eyes.

After a week I decided Test Slab 1A was ready so I pulled it out and rinsed it off. I thought the flecks of pepper looked cool and tasteful and left them. Big mistake. By not rinsing off all the pepper I also didn’t rinse off all the curing salt.

Oh my.

The bacon was very, very, very, very, very salty. Think a Virginia country ham kind of salty. Or, if you’ve never had a Virginia country ham, just imagine very, very, very, very, very salty. It was salty. And yet good. ‘Cause me made it and it was freshyfresh. But very salty.

Test Slab 1B was better. Miss Carol elbowed me aside and rinsed it thoroughly and we cut it thickly and grilled it and even though the coals were too hot and we kinda burned it, it was still fucking awesome. The meat was fresher and saltier than any other bacon we’d ever eaten and the fat was incredibly juicy.

So what’s next?

Test Slabs 2A and 2B are currently curing using more brown sugar to maybe cut the salt level and our dehydration down a notch now that we’re committed to the experiment.

We will rock this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Makin’ Bacon

In a recent meander through the internet, I somehow stumbled across an article about the ease and wonderfulness of curing your own bacon.

And I said, Whoa.

‘Cause, I mean, who doesn’t love bacon? And who wouldn’t love it even more if it was easily and wonderfully self-cured? I was chubbed up and hooked. Gimmee, gimmee, I thought.

So I approached Miss Carol with the idea. She looked at me a little skeptically again, like she always does with my new ideas and shook her head again and said, ok, yeah, why not?

I practically skipped to the Southern Packing Plant, I was so excited. I walked in and the counter guy in white doctor coat and hair net asked if he could help me.

I’d like some pork belly, I said. I want to make some bacon, I said.

He smiled and said, No problem. And he went back into the backroom of these places.

After awhile he re-emerged and hoisted what looked like a heavy fatty rug up onto the knife scarred stainless steel table to weigh it. Twelve pounds, he said. That’ll be thirty-six dollars, he said.

I swallowed hard. I only wanted about a pound, I said.

The counter guy hefted the yellowy, fatty rug thing and said, sorry we only sell the whole belly.

So thinking that maybe he’d gone back into the backroom and carved my future bacon off of a hapless pig, I gulped and said, OK.

He smiled and wrapped it all up in brown paper and I paid him, feeling like I’d maybe made another mistake and drove home.

When I got home, I was surprised. Miss Carol thought it was a great deal. Three bucks a pound for bacon?, she exclaimed, let’s do this thing!

And so we did. We cut the belly up and skinned it and rubbed the seasonings on it and put it in the refrigerator to cure and we’ll see in a week or so.

 

Next-Does Bacon Really Make Everything Better?

 

 

 

 

Perspicacity.

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OK.

I’ve been doing this trucker stuff part-time for several months now and I have a whole new awareness of the industry and what the Drivers have to contend with.

We all work hard, right? Yeah we do, but consider this-

Imagine your every work day is a 14 hour work day.

Imagine that during your 14 hour work day you HAVE to get ALL of your work done in only 11 hours.

Imagine that during that 11 hours you HAVE to take a half hour break and STILL get your 14 hours of work done.

Imagine that during the 10.5 hours you have to complete your 14 hours of work you have not only company oversight but Federal and State oversight as well.

Imagine that while you’re desperately trying to complete your 14 hours of work in 10.5 hours people continually stream into your office needing things, asking advice, wanting to talk or simply forcing you to do things for them and getting in the way of you completing your 14 hours of work.

Imagine that if you don’t get your 14 hours of work done in 10.5 hours with Federal and State oversight and a constant stream of needy people,  you risk a reprimand from the Company you work for and being fined and shut down, forced to sit wherever you are for 10 hours.

Imagine doing that every day.

 

 

HeartBRAKE Steak.

I sometimes cook.

Not often because Miss Carol is so much better at it then I am, but sometimes I have to, to survive when Miss Carol is out and about, flitting around social butterfly-like.

The other day was one of those days. After a dinner of Fritos on Tuesday I felt certain that I needed to cook something on Wednesday or perish. Beer helps with the hunger pangs but nothing satisfies quite like a steak.

So I made myself a couple of HeartBRAKE Steaks and feasted and chubbed up.

Here’s the oh-so-easy-peasy-pie recipe:

HeartBRAKE Steaks

Thin cut rib eye steaks (as many as you need for how ever many you’re feeding)

Salt and Pepper (or whatever spice you want, but I recommend salt and pepper)

Bacon grease (doesn’t EVERYONE save this?)

One of these http://www.lodgemfg.com

Oh, and one of these http://weber.com

Start your grill or light the coals or whatever. Get it hot. Put your seasoned skillet over the hot coals or burners and spoon in some bacon grease goodness.

Drink a beer.

When the grease is smoking hot slide your thin-cut rib-eyes in slowly and lovingly and then salt and pepper.

Drink a beer.

Turn those babies over and salt and pepper again. Sniff the cooking meat and bacon grease. High five yourself.

Drink a beer.

Pull the steaks off after a couple of minutes per side (it doesn’t take long, they’re thin) and plate up with a sliced tomato.

And ooh, baby, baby,  believe me. Heaven isn’t far away.

Does this truck make me look like a trucker?

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Ok, so it’s been awhile.

Actually it’s been a long while, but you have to realize, every time I tried to come back to my blog I’d see the Tug posts and I wouldn’t and couldn’t get past them. It was like forgetting him, or worse yet, erasing him.

So I’d click in, sigh, and click out, and days became weeks and weeks became months.

And here we are. ‘Cause life moves on, right? So maybe I’m back. Let’s see.

One of the things that happened during those weeks and months was that I bought a new truck. He’s a 2005 Freightliner Columbia and he’s beautiful. I say he instead of  the she usually used for boats and trucks and stuff guys love because I’m probably gonna name him TugTug. (I know, I know, get over it already) He’s 515 horsepower of Detroit Diesel muscle and he’s been a long time coming.

I was more owner than operator of my first truck and I had five drivers in a year and a half. Each driver progressively wrecked my truck more and more until my fifth and final driver rolled her in NC and totaled her. (I still swing back and forth between relief that the driver wasn’t hurt and resentment that the driver wasn’t hurt)https://oceandoggy.com/2013/08/11/death-by-degrees/

So this time I decided I was gonna  be the driver as well as the owner and I found this Freightliner and bought her, I mean him, and she, I mean he, was a truck I could afford to to own and run even if I could only drive her, I mean him, a couple of days a month.

And so that’s what I did, or rather, what I’ve done.

Me and TugTug.