You Are Butchering My Heart
Jun 27th, 2007 by Max
Summer is a time for short sleeves, Gold Bond medicated powder, and eating animals outdoors, so in that vein I have been doing lots of grilling the past few weeks. If you know me, you know I love force feeding meats to friends and snapping the morals of vegetarians over my knee. Sunday’s meal hit a new high, with Andrew and I collaborating to serve three racks of St. Louis pork ribs, four two-foot long fried catfish po’boys, and 16 pounds of grilled crab legs. It was dominant. It reduced a group of otherwise civilized and composed intellectuals to a squatting mass of cromaggers slamming on shells with beer bottles and picking stray crab meat off their feet to dip in melted butter.
According to Peter, this is how I look while grillmastering:
According to my camera, this is how Peter looks while about to take 24 inches of premium sandwich into his throat:
When everybody finally filed out, the apartment was a complete disaster. Emma did her best and transported as much as possible to the kitchen counters, but we were all too exhausted to go any further. The next day, it looked like about a hundred frat guy bachelors had thrown a stand-up-around-the-kitchen-counter nacho party at my house, high-fiving and shotgunning beers over the sink. But then I realized that they would have been the gayest frat guys ever, as the remains were things like grilled zucchini, corn salad, mango reduction sauce and homemade cinnamon ice cream. More like brothers for life in the Brooklyn chapter of Felta Lotta Kok, am I right.
During the actual cooking, Andrew and I struggled with limited grill space and heat, so I have decided that George Foreman needs to invent a device that can handle a bigger load, for the deluxe meat-lover. (That definitely gets a nullus, despite my reservations about that term.)
Christ, I feel sick again just reading this. On the plus side, uh, now we know which ones of our friends we’ll need to kill first once the Zombie Apocalypse begins.
I am uncomfortable with my characterization as a dutiful house-cleaner, Max. I would prefer a portrayal akin to that of Jocelyn (group photo, upper left), except that I would be orgiastic about house-filth, instead of crustacean leg.
You know, I had a feeling you would object to that, but I thought it would be misleading to imply that I had helped clean up at all. I mostly helped myself lay down on the couch. (I was tired from cooking and drinking for 9 hours straight, Miss I-Worked-At-My-Job-All-Day.)
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