The People's Gourmet: January 2006

Hobo's Delight

Obviously and understandably, the Refugee is embittered by the lot life handed him. So, when he goes into hysterical tirades, give him some tantrum space and, when he's done and exhausted and probably drunk, gently wipe the spittle from the corners of his mouth. (Watch your fingers, though, he's a biter.) Then offer some warm and encouraging words that massage his fractured ego calloused by years of failure and substance abuse.

While Bougie and the Refugee spent a cold and lonesome day apart, filled with heartache and longing, some cooking was accomplished. The list of ingredients and methods posted by the Refugee may be impossible to understand and too tedious to read, but, give credit when due, he was sober enough to make a meal without supervision and not start a fire. Of course, without access to the freshest and finest ingredients maintained on my estate, the Refugee was relegated to cooking with spoiled fish and dry leaves. Since the Refugee and I, unfortunately, did not spend yesterday together, holding hands and singing songs and splashing in puddles, I did not get a picture of his sublime, if plebian, concoction. Instead, I have posted a picture of a previous meal I labeled "Hobo's Delight."

One evening, after a long day of riding the rails or digging though dumpsters or doing whatever else the Refugee might do, he arrived at my luxurious home with a napsack filled with turnips. Whether he pulled these from someone's garden or stole them from the table of a poor immigrant family with children to feed, I do not care and did not ask. Instead I provided some high-end ingredients - fresh kiwi and gorgonzola cheese - and told him to make something fantastic. The result, Hobo's Delight, is pictured above. I will allow the Refugee to detail how he made the turnip patties and cream sauce, which, since the Refugee is semi-illiterate, I will then translate into something partially understandable.

He Even Slurs His Words in Text

Look who crawled out of a liquor bottle long enough to post an incoherent ramble filled with mispellings and poor grammar. Dear Reader: the Refugee is not, as his writing may lead you to believe, a third grader learning how to type. No, he is a proud member of the vulgar masses, a lousy drunkard who urinates in public and lowers the value of real estate through his mere presence. Lucky for you and me, however, he can be made to serve those above his unfortunate station on the social ladder. Hence, the main and driving point behind this blog, or bloog, as my co-idiot says: the food prepared by the Refugee for the enjoyment of myself and anyone else of higher birth who is in attendance. I understand your possible confusion. You may be wondering, where are the pictures of these glorious meals and how can I benefit from their posting on this blog? In due course, dear reader, in due course. With time, the postings will take shape, even if the Refugee never knows a sober moment or sex that does not involve a toothless streetwalker.

I'm being a bit harsh, I apologize. I understand and feel the Refugee's pain. If I had his lot in life, I'd hit the hooch pretty hard too. Yes, he's had it rough. Being tossed out of his home by mother nature, and stuck in low wage jobs that don't appreciate a keen mind. Luckily, his is not so keen, dampened by years of hard-living and VH1 marathons. Perhaps the Refugee will tell the woeful tale of his sad life. Another posting by the Refugee, however, is a dubious gift. Soaked in rage and alcohol, he can hardly be understood. He definitely can't be liked. Reading his rantings sours one's mood, for a few minutes at least. But, life is more than vintage varietals of red wine and gourmet cheeses. I understand this and you should too. Thus, the Refugee and a peek into his dark, dark world. At least the food is good.

Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia

Last night, Bougie and the Refugee stormed a luxury apartment occupied by an idling barrister, and, despite threats of financially crippling litigation, comandeered her entertainment center and watched Sam Peckinpah's 'Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia.' Bougie thought the movie kicked ass and, really, his is the only opinion that counts. If not for Bougie, the Refugee and idling barrister would have watched 13 consecutive hours of the food network, oohed and aaahed with the audience, and salivated over dishes made with unaffordable equipment and unattainable ingredients. No cooking was achieved that night because Bougie and the Refugee stumbled across a terrible narcotic which made them drooling idiots and incapacitated the Refugee's cognitive and fine motor skills. Bougie was unaffected because an incapacity for creative thought and lack of fine motor skills are his natural state. Instead of being thrifty and self-sufficient, Bougie and the Refugee went to an overpriced restaurant with mediocre food and an overly-talkative staff. the Refugee ordered squash ravioli because he is a vegetarian, which means he is a pussy and sympathizes with terrorists and hates America. Bougie, being bougie, ordered mahi-mahi with some sweet glaze that could have been doing double-time at some horrid chinese restaurant that also sells tacos. Bougie and the Refugee apologize for their lapse in judgment and lack of initiative. Bougie recommends 'Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia' for anyone interested in a grimy pseduo-western steeped in nihilism.

Pictures of previously-made meals will be displayed as soon as the idling barrister's digital camera is stolen, used, and probably broken.