fajitas and dos equis
I was sitting on Fajita Monday at the local Mexican pondering the lack of subject material for my food blog. It's not that I haven't been eating, it's not that I've been eating particularly badly, it's perhaps that I've been in one of those phases where I dont' eat anything that is either so spectacularly awful or so blazingly fantastic that I feel the need to rush home and write about it.
I've been making more lunches for myself, to eat in the sunny back yard with my rooster and duckling pecking around, but they've been mostly along the lines of a simple spaghetti, leftovers, noodles and miso soup, or something-on-toast. I've eaten out, but nowhere that I haven't already mentioned several times. I did have very good barbecue twice recently - at Thomaston as the reward for lifting about a hundred poop logs [RS nickname for large railway sleeper-type objects made out of compressed household waste) into place, and at Butch's Doonanny where his father barbecued about ten Boston Butts for eight hours and made his own special sauce. I've marvelled at a few strange things in the world of American food and even eaten deep-fried frogs legs (they weren't very good) along with catfish at one riverside fish place, and I ate at the one Japanese restaurant within a fifty mile radius, which was also not very good but made a welcome change from the catfish.
So my eating patterns have become homely and uneventful. But next week I get to go to Atlanta to pick up a friend from the airport. And that means a visit to the scary-but-alluring DeKalb Farmers Market. Hell yeah...
I've been making more lunches for myself, to eat in the sunny back yard with my rooster and duckling pecking around, but they've been mostly along the lines of a simple spaghetti, leftovers, noodles and miso soup, or something-on-toast. I've eaten out, but nowhere that I haven't already mentioned several times. I did have very good barbecue twice recently - at Thomaston as the reward for lifting about a hundred poop logs [RS nickname for large railway sleeper-type objects made out of compressed household waste) into place, and at Butch's Doonanny where his father barbecued about ten Boston Butts for eight hours and made his own special sauce. I've marvelled at a few strange things in the world of American food and even eaten deep-fried frogs legs (they weren't very good) along with catfish at one riverside fish place, and I ate at the one Japanese restaurant within a fifty mile radius, which was also not very good but made a welcome change from the catfish.
So my eating patterns have become homely and uneventful. But next week I get to go to Atlanta to pick up a friend from the airport. And that means a visit to the scary-but-alluring DeKalb Farmers Market. Hell yeah...
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