Welcome to the inagural post of Eating Out Fresno. Rather than patting myself on the back and glad handing with empty platitudes and vague promises aimed at the future, lets get on with the blogging!
I figure for a first post we should get down to the essence of what food is. Real food. It's that one special thing that just hits the spot. Like there was an aching, empty, missing part of yourself that you didn't even know was gone. Until, that is...when you look down at an empty plate and feel a warm torpid satisfaction spread from your brain down to your toes. Evolutionary chemical factories sending you a wonderful endorphine cookie for a meal well chosen.
Whatever that item might be at that special time, it becomes the pinnacle of haute cuisine for that person on that day. And so, I would like to share one of those special moments.
It's 5:30 in the morning. I'm at 6,500' of elevation and 100 miles from civilization. I'm 6 hours into an 18 hour drunk and I've got the Hunger. We've got cookie and chips and sandwich fix'ins. But, HELL NO! I'm the Brillat Savarin of the Sierra! Nothing so simple as being crosseyed drunk is going to keep me from eating like a king in the wilderness.
So, trying to stumble ever so quietly so as not to awaken my snoozing camp mates, I dig into the camp boxes and ice chests to ferret out the raw materials of inspiration. Bacon, potatoes and a small handful of seasonings. What more could the inebriated royal on the go desire in a meal?
Well, a normal working knife for one. The meaty grip on the knock off multi tool found lying on the camp table was neither sharp, nor particularly ergonomic. The world can be so tedious at times. But I forge ahead, hacking the bacon to fit the pan and get it to sizzling.
So the potatoes, cubed as if they'd been hacked at by an arthritic with rickets, hop in for a sizzle. Add a little thyme, sage, garlic salt and pepper, toss them a bit and then slap the lid on. Remember, we're fairly high up. So cooking them taters takes a bit. About 2 more beers.
And now comes the magic time. Bacon is chopped into bite sized pieces and tossed with the potatoes. And voila! Hands down the the most filling and satisfying breakfast to be had in all the kingdom. A perfect hyphen. Separating a night of carousing in natural hot springs with fur bearing hippies of many stripes while sipping away at Newcastles kept chilled by the 40 degree temperatures outside of the volcanically heated doo-doo scented waters. And a hazy afternoon involving cross dressing, drinking questionable yellow fluids and many other disturbing and unprintable antics.
And so I leave you with the last thing I remember clearly. A warm fire on a crisp morning, the warm fuzzy of the perfect meal and the pants I lost later that day.-Pook