The reason that I love Thanksgiving is pretty simple,
really. It’s turkey. See? Nothing too fucking complicated, I just fucking love
eating turkey. A big fucking roast bird. With mashed potatoes. Oh, yeah. And
gravy. Lots of fucking gravy. I want to be able to surf that shit. Like,
absolutely smother that big honking pile of shit on my plate in so much gravy
that I’ll have instant arterial sclerosis and my arteries are so fucking
clogged with gravy that I can’t move.
Poke me with a fork and watch the gravy
pour out. Gravy. It’s as American as pie. Oh, pie. Can’t forget about some
motherfucking pie. Lots and lots of motherfucking pie. It’s as American as
gravy. Apple, pecan, blueberry, whatever. Fuck that pumpkin shit, though. There’s
only one way to eat a pumpkin pie and that’s to slice it up and then throw that
nasty shit in the trash. You can keep the cranberry sauce, stuffing and the
rest of that crap, too. Veggies? Nah, fuck that. Just because the turkey’s
dead, it doesn’t mean that you should eat its food. Have some fucking
compassion, people.
Just give me my turkey, taters, gravy and pie.
I’m kind of aroused, just thinking about it.
Gravy. It’s like edible KY Jelly.
Last year, I discovered another reason to love Thanksgiving
and it’s quite a delicious one; a veritable plastic bag full of goodness,
Boulder Canyon Turkey & Gravy flavored potato chips. Each wonderfully
crunchy, salty, and tasty chip is like a little Thanksgiving adventure piled high
with deliciousness. It’s like a little Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade of flavor
marching across your tongue. Be still, my cholesterol clogged and barely beating
heart.
Unfortunately, they also have a Pumpkin Pie flavor. What the fuck were
they thinking? What kind of sicko would eat something like that? Besides white
girls, I mean. And my friend Steve, but he’s just a white girl at heart; he
likes Broadway musicals and shit and he claims to be straight. White girls go
crazy over pumpkin anything. I can’t even begin to tell you how much pumpkin
spice chloroform has improved my sex life. Yeah, right. Anyway, there’s so much
pumpkin flavored and scented shit these days, I’m surprised that there isn’t a
pumpkin scented douche. Oh, wait, there is. He likes Broadway musicals and his
name is Steve.
Unfortunately, Boulder Canyon Turkey & Gravy potato
chips are a limited time item and are always in short supply, so I have to
stock up whenever I see them. They start to appear close to Halloween and I
make sure to buy them as soon as I see them, because they go fast and they are
impossible to find after Thanksgiving. I was at the grocery store a couple of
weeks ago, stoned as usual and wandering in circles around the store, pretty
much the same way that I always do, when I spotted them. The heavens had opened
up and a little light shined down and there they fucking were. Two bags. Only
two bags? I was distraught. Some other motherfucker or motherfuckers unknown
had beaten me to the booty, but there were still scraps. I snatched those bags
up so fast, I was like the motherfucking Flash and I dashed to the front of the
store to pay for my treasure, conveniently forgetting, in my excitement, all of
the other shit that I had wanted to buy at the store and I hopped in my car and
drove off. I immediately realized my sheer, stoned stupidity and quickly
flipped around, making a U-turn in the parking lot, nearly taking out some
midget in a mobility chair that darted out in front of me.
I stood on the
brakes and came to a tire squealing, bone-jarring halt, barely missing the
little dude. By all rights, he should have been flatter than silver dollar
pancakes. He looked up at me and instead of just feeling grateful to be alive,
he totally lost his shit, going off like a little firecracker. Fuck me. Now, I
had a screaming midget on my hands. What the fuck? And why was the little shit
so angry? It’s not like I hit the little bastard, not even close and I thought
he was just as much at fault as I was, but suddenly I’m the bad guy? How the
fuck I manage to get myself into shit like this is completely beyond me and I
was starting to wish I’d hit the gas and not the brake. Instead, I smiled and
waved like a grinning fucking lunatic, which only seemed to agitate him more.
It took the munchkin another minute or two to wind down and after telling me to
go and follow the Yellow Brick Road, the midget rolled on his way toward the
grocery store and I shrugged the little motherfucker off and went to look for
an empty parking space, found one and ran back into the store to get the rest
of the things that I needed.
It was a pretty smooth trip, except for a couple of little
things…
My girlfriend called and asked me to pick up a couple of
bottles of wine. No problem. This became my number one priority, because a
smart man knows better than to come between a woman and her wine. I veered off my
path and headed for the wine section of the store, grabbed a few bottles, and
in my haste, I exited the aisle without really looking where I was going and I
accidentally collided with another customer. Guess who?
What are the fucking odds?
Little dude looked at me and I looked down at him and I
watched as his face turned a deep red, kind of shading towards purple. It was
not a healthy, nor an attractive color. I watched in awe as he sat there and
pulled himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much, mind you and that
little fucker unleashed a stream of invective at me that was so strong, I felt
staggered by its weight. Everyone around us stopped what they were doing and
stared. Thankfully, it was nice and extra fucking busy, so lots of folks got to
see the freak show. Like half the fucking town. Mortified, I did the only thing
that I could. I muttered an apology, tucked my tail between my legs, turned
around and moved off as quickly as I could without breaking into a sprint. I
did have to maintain some sense of dignity and decorum, after all.
Two aisles later and I’m grabbing some rice off of one of
the lower shelves when someone crashed into me from behind and sent me
stumbling into my cart, nearly causing me to faceplant on the floor.
Guess who?
The little motherfucker laughed and said, “Sorry,” before
gunning his little scooter down the aisle, cackling like a madman and escaping
before I could even come to my senses.
That little fucking prick. Whatever. I picked myself up off
the floor.
As I came to the end of the aisle, he was sitting there waiting
for me. He looked at me, laughed, flipped me off and then took off down the
aisle. Asshole.
Go fuck yourself, dude.
I definitely should have hit the gas. Fuck that, I should
have backed over him again too and then just gone back and forth a few times.
Sigh… A boy can dream, can’t he?
One more aisle over and I ran into my friend Luke and we
started shooting the shit for a moment, when all of a sudden that little prick
comes zooming down the aisle, drives past us and yells, “Fucking asshole!”
Luke looked all sorts of befuddled, but I just laughed and I
said, “I think he was talking to you, bro.”
“Did we really just get screamed at by an angry midget on a
mobility scooter?” Luke asked. “What the fuck is wrong with people?”
I laughed and said, “Maybe it’s just you. You do seem to
attract that kind of shit.”
We said our goodbyes and I continued on my way, coiled and
ready to strike like a deadly snake if I spotted my prey, but alas, I didn’t see
the little bastard anywhere, which was good news for him, because that little
fuck was about to become a real-life Elf on a Fucking Shelf. Ugh, if I could
only get my hands on him.
That little bastard was really starting to get on my fucking
nerves. And what the fuck was he doing in the store, anyway? Shouldn’t Santa’s
little fucking helpers all be up at the North Pole, this time of year? No
wonder I can’t find a fucking Hatchimal.
I finished my shopping and headed for the cash registers at
the front of the store. Exiting the aisle, I noticed an empty register and
picked up my speed, making a beeline for it. That was when I heard a loud and
high-pitched electric whine as the midget came out of the aisle on my left,
heading for the same cashier that I was. Oh, hell to the fuck, no. That little
bastard wasn’t going to beat me. I picked up speed and so did he, but there
could be only one and it sure as shit wasn’t going to be that little prick. I
looked at him and he looked at me, eyes locked, like two bad 50’s movie, hot
rod drag racers headed for the finish line at the edge of the cliff. We locked
eyes for a moment and I saw murderous intent as he swung his handlebars toward
me. He tried to veer his scooter into my cart and pass me, but instead I
feinted and then swung my cart directly into the front end of his scooter,
shoving him off course and into a display rack of potato chips that was in
front of the register and I laughed as I watched the bags of chips crash down
around the midget and then his scooter came to rest, quite ungracefully,
against a drink cooler. There were bags of fucking chips everywhere and I
couldn’t help but laugh like a fucking madman as my cart popped into the chute
and I strolled casually up to the register, feeling like I’d just won the girl
and the race and fuck that guy.
The midget started carrying on, bleating like a wounded
goat, as if he were completely innocent and hadn’t contributed anything at all
to what had just happened to him and I was just big, bad Gulliver trying to
destroy the poor little people of Lilliput. Yeah, fuck that. People started
picking up bags of chips from the floor and clearing a path for his scooter to
escape the wreckage.
I threw the few things that I had on the conveyor belt and
paid as quickly as I could, which was a good thing, because Mr. Midget was on
his way.
The cashier was just handing me my change when he started
screaming. Again.
“You son of a bitch,” he started, but it was too late and I
bolted from the checkout line and headed for the exit, but I stopped before I
had gone too far and I turned around, looked that little motherfucker right in
the eye, smiled and gave him a one fingered salute, before making my escape and
running for my car, laughing hysterically the entire way.
People really should watch where they’re going.
I made it over to my girlfriend’s house without further
incident. As I was unpacking the groceries, I
foolishly decided to show her my prize. I pulled out the bags and I showed the
chips off to her like a proud papa.
“That looks disgusting,” Hannah told me.
“Looks can be deceiving,” I said. “Look at me.”
“You’re disgusting,” she said.
“Be that as it may,” I replied, “These are actually really
good. Try one.”
Hannah gave me a dubious look, but she tried one anyway.
“These are delicious,” she said.
“I told you,” I said.
She reached for the bag. I tried to pull it away, but I had
created a monster. Hannah beat me up and took my chips. It was the school cafeteria
line all over again and I was shit out of luck when it came to keeping my milk
money.
While we were stuffing our faces, I had a brilliant idea. I
have lots of brilliant ideas. Unfortunately, I’m the only one who ever thinks
that they’re brilliant ideas. That’s unfortunate, but I have no doubt that one
day, the world will see me for the genius I am. Probably not any time soon,
though.
“Baby, what would you think if we made a poutine out of
these chips?” I asked Hannah.
Now, before we go any further, I need to take a moment to
explain what exactly poutine is.
Walk down a street
after a hard night of drinking in Montréal and you’d be hard-pressed not seeing
someone gorging themselves on poutine, a high-calorie classic staple of
Québécois casse-croûtes—or “greasy spoon”—cuisine.
Just what is poutine,
you ask? The delicious Canadian dish is comprised of a holy-hoser trinity of
ingredients: French fries, cheese curds, and gravy. Try some yourself and
you’ll be hooked. It’s become so popular that it’s readily available at certain
restaurants in the U.S. (Lucky New Yorkers can get their hands on some
traditional poutine at Brooklyn restaurant Mile End.) Otherwise, the dish has
become so ubiquitous in its home province that even McDonald’s and Burger King
sell it as a side. – A Brief
History of Poutine, by Sean Hutchinson
Now poutine, like Rush, is Canada’s gift to the world. I’m
sure that some of my Canadian readers will be quick to point out all sorts of
other cool Canadian things and accomplishments, such as they may be, but you
also gave us Justin Bieber and that wipes out a whole fucking lot of goodwill.
Take him back and we’ll talk.
So, my idea was to take the chips, throw on a few chunks of
turkey, some gravy, a little bacon and some cheddar cheese curds and we’d be
eating like gods.
Hannah didn’t seem to be very enthusiastic about my idea.
“I really don’t think it would be a good idea,” she said. “I
don’t think the chips would hold up well under the gravy and that it would just
be a soggy, nasty mess.”
I knew Hannah was wrong, but I let it go. I was fixated on
creating what I was sure would be a culinary masterpiece, this Pilgrim Poutine,
as I was now calling it. We had one bag of chips left and I was going to use it
for what God intended it for.
A couple of weeks went by and I’m pretty sure Hannah had
thought I’d forgotten my brilliant idea, but I hadn’t. One night, I made an
executive decision that it would be poutine night and headed for the store to
begin collecting the ingredients. I called Hannah from the store and informed
her of what was on the menu.
“I’d kind of hoped you’d forgotten about that,” she said.
“Would Bob Ross forget painting the Sistine Chapel?” I
replied. “I’m making it, it will be delicious. Get over it.”
But Hannah wasn’t done. “That’s fine, but my biggest concern
is that the chips aren’t going to make it. Could you please pick up some waffle
fries, or something as a backup, just in case?”
I agreed to make the waffle fries, even though I didn’t want
to. I was stoned and I knew what I was doing. I know my shit when it comes to
cooking. What could possibly go wrong?
I grabbed a few bottles of wine, just in case something went
wrong.
I was in and out of the store, quickly picking up the few
items that I needed. Okay, that’s complete bullshit. I was so fucking high that
it took me like ninety minutes of wandering around, just to buy gravy, cheese
curds, turkey, waffle fries and bacon. Five fucking things, fer fuck’s sake.
The problem was that I kept picking up this and that, changing my mind on the
ingredients that I wanted to use and walking around in circles, returning shit
to where I picked it up before finding something else and changing my mind yet
again. Chasing my tail, like an idiot dog. Never take me to the fucking grocery
store when I’m stoned. It’s a fucking trial is what it is.
At least there weren’t any fucking midgets.
So, I end up over at Hannah’s house and I’m unpacking the
groceries. Hannah waltzes into the kitchen and turns on the oven, which I found
curious, because we didn’t need the oven for anything.
“Why did you turn on the oven?” I asked her.
“To make the waffle fries.” she answered.
Wait. What? Bake the waffle fries? I’m not sure I understood
what Hannah was trying to say. Who does that? It’s wrong. French fries. Waffle
fries. Whatever. You’ll notice they all have the word fries, as in fried, in
their name. They’re supposed to be fried, not fucking baked. This kind of
fuckery just couldn’t be allowed to stand. I decided to set Hannah straight in
the most assertive way possible.
“Oh,” I said. And then more meekly, I added, “Baby, I
thought we were going to fry them. That’s what you do with potatoes.”
It was like I needed validation, or something.
“No, baby,” she said, “We’re going to bake them.”
I did as I was told.
Sometimes, I’m a smart motherfucker. It just doesn’t happen
very often.
When the fries were ready, I took them out of the oven and
added the turkey and gravy chips to the cookie sheet. Then I topped the fries
and chips off with some roast turkey breast, shredded cheddar, cheddar cheese
curds and bacon. I poured the turkey gravy all over that shit, turned on the
broiler and tossed it back into the oven. I let it sit under the broiler just
long enough for the cheese curds to melt and I pulled the cookie sheet out of
the oven,
It looked like a big, heaping, honking, pile of shit.
Smelled fucking great, though.
I carefully portioned out the poutine, making sure that my
girlfriend got the half with the waffle-cut fries and saving all the chips for
myself, naturally. I handed her plate over.
“Did you give me any of the chips?” she asked me.
What? Wait. What? Oh, no. You don’t go dogging my turkey and
gravy chips, make me cook something special just for you and then just expect
me to hand over the good shit after you’ve talked shit about it for weeks? I
battled a mighty midget, for fuck’s sake and you just expect me to hand over my
loot? Oh, fuck to the hell no! Dog my chips and you don’t get shit.
“No.” I replied, “You said you didn’t want any and you made
me cook the waffle fries for you. You said the chips wouldn’t hold up.”
“I didn’t say that I didn’t want any,” she answered. “I said
that I wanted to have a backup, just in case.”
“But, I…” I stammered.
She just looked at me.
I rearranged the plates and reluctantly gave her some of the
chips. I thought about adding one more herb, but I couldn’t find strychnine
anywhere.
We looked at our heaping, honking, piles of shit and we dug
in. It was fucking delicious and one of the best things that I’ve ever tasted
and not just because I was stoned, either.
You should try it sometime.
Midget battles are optional.
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