The Meatiest Place On Earth

[Boots]

Howdy all, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and a pleasant Festivus for the rest of us!

So, after and a tough and tiring year, Mrs Boots and I decided Less Is More and went simple for Christmas dinner so we could spend more time w Boots Jr, the brother in law (aka The Meathead), and the fur flapping Boots Hounds. So dinner was a stripped down affair with no frou frou, kinda like Elvis back in black leather doing real rockabilly in a retro TV special (it happened, he was never better). Do you know how they call Disneyland The Happiest Place On Earth? Yeah, we were lookin for something like that at home.

But behind every good plan is good planning, so lo upon a midnight dreary (Tuesday), as I pondered (weak and weary), partaking of a holiday cannoli from Jimmy’s and a snifter of Markers 46 (to ward off that insipid germ), a Plan struck me square on the head like the falling engine from a passing 737 Max - “It’s the Steaks, Stupid”. So simple, so elegantly simple and brilliant was the plan, it could have staggered a goat at 50 feet. I was stunned; upon recovering myself momentarily, I poured another Makers and began to scheme.

Wednesday morn I jumped in the Batmobile and roared down Thunder Road from my house to the CostCo in McKinney, scattering livestock and cyclists in my wake like thunderstruck guinea hens in a downpour. Brandishing my Executive card like a Ranger badge I kicked open the clear plastic wind strips and strode in with a purpose, fixing my steady gaze upon the pimply faced door clerk.

“Howdy Gherkin, Where’s the Beef?!?” I growled. I was in no mood for pleasantries.

Summoning all his courage into his 120 pound Barney Fife frame, the callow youth bowed up with a sneer and pointed toward the back. “That way, Sir, past the 50 pound cheese wheels and right of the pallet of Three Buck Chuck”. He blinked like an owl behind his thick glasses, which looked like fugitive windows from a surplus auction Soviet submersible.

“Son, eat some bacon, else the March breeze is going to blow you all the way west and plaster yer remains on the Front Range. Merry Christmas”.

His mouth gaped. “Hickory smoked or peppered, Sir?” he babbled.

“In your case, both. And add a drum of peanut butter, and stuff some rocks in yer pockets”. He nodded dumbly, and I barreled my cart to the back, shoving past carts loaded high with cheese puffs and toilet paper like a Sherman tank.

You know, it’s a funny thing about CostCo. So, 95% of the store is naked, uncurbed, unapologetic, and unbridled rank commercialism. It cuts against everything I hate about modern merchandising: elbow to elbow shoppers crowding in teeming,frothing masses across a Soviet bloc type warehouse space where discounting is worshipped like a god but value is both unknown and unfound. A pallet full of crocs discounted 90% to five dollars a pair will sell out in 20 minutes, but a single pair of handcrafted boots made to last a lifetime by a master craftsman for several hundred dollars would gather dust on the shelf until Gabriel dusts off his trumpet. Yet, in all that maddening scrum, there is one area where even a curmudgeon can pull up and park his hypocrisy in welcome and at least for a brief moment say, “Wow, lookit that...”.

“THAT” would be the MEAT DEPARTMENT my friends. The one place of solace and quality in a crass and morally bankrupt molten morass of merchandising. Literally acres of choice (or prime) meats piled high at shockingly low prices. Women in fast passing eyeball the area with suspicion (“It will just make me fat, where’s the turkey?”); Men pause reverently upon entering, removing their hats slowly as if in a cathedral, edging towards the alters of meat as if to say, “Thank you for this bounty, forgive me both my past sins and those I am about to commit again in buying 10 pounds of choice ribeyes at $6 a pound on special, hallelujah!!”. And then there are moments of sheer emotional breakdowns; and elderly gentlemen of advanced years obviously nearing the end of life’s journey who is at last able to stare in teary disbelief and say, “I can actually buy WHOLE pork bellies here? Oh, gracious goodness, BACON UBER ALLES!!!”.

Maybe it’s just me, but when I left with a rack of prime tenderloin and a full pork belly for my birthday, I had that just-spent-the-day-at-Disneyland spring in my step that little kids must have, just leaving the MEATIEST PLACE ON EARTH.

SO GETTING BACK TO BASICS, there was no Julia Child’s’ climb Mount Everest recipe this Christmas, no 9 hours Beef Wellington, no Yorkshire pudding, no phyllo dough deserts, and not a cook book in site. Just simplicity itself, a mental trip back to the hills and plains of Texas with beef tenderloins and Opa’s Hatch Chile sausage seared over a slow Mesquite fire under the largest live oak in Collin County while horse and burro looking on, roasted yams with butter and brown sugar, a fresh green salad, and a cold, cold, ice cold Shiner Bock beer with the family. Pure Heaven.

It just don’t get better than that.

Merry Christmas and a happy and blessed New Year to you all.

[OldUsedParts]

Bevo Forgive Me

" WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP "

[Boots]

Bevo Forgive Me

" WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP "

LOL. I’m gonna have to frame that one and hang it on my wall.

[OldUsedParts]

It would be more Rare than "Kneeling" at a PRCA Rodeo during the National Anthem

[GRailsback]

Good stuff Boots, nothing wrong with simplicity.

[Norway Joe]

Great story. We have a saying: the simplest is often the best. You confirm it.

Looks great to me.

Sent fra min SM-G988B via Tapatalk

[Sailor Kenshin]

Same here!