Cabbage Bombs

Prior to Man Camp, there was a lot of e-mail chatter among past participants. Two words kept popping up in many of those messages. Cabbage Bombs!

Of course, I was intrigued.

Cabbage Bombs! I envisioned a campfire cabbage roll, similar to the potluck dinner staple of my youth. They consisted of seasoned ground beef, rice, green peppers, and onions wrapped in cabbage leaves that were bathed in tomato sauce.

My vision of the Cabbage Bomb wasn't close to being accurate.

Cabbage Bombs aren't cabbage rolls.

They're much bigger and grander and worthy of their name. Cabbage Bombs consist of an entire head of cabbage that's been cored and stuffed with whatever ingredients tickle your fancy. Then you wrap it in foil, set it next to the fire, and roast until it's nice and soft.

I dub this Cabbage Bomb "The Josey Wales" because it's stuffed with whiskey, beef jerky, and jalapeno peppers. This trio of ingredients might not sound appetizing, but it creates a rich, beefy broth that's reminiscent of soy sauce, perfect for dipping leaves of cabbage.
I can't wait to create my own Cabbage Bomb on my next cookout.

drop cabbage, not bombs,

muddy

A Fistful of Dynamite

Mr. Crankypants has been rattling his cage more than usual, so we put a 2nd padlock on it. He's wound tight. He's like a stick of dynamite in a Sergio Leone movie.

The other day I was driving up on campus and Mr. Crankypants was in the passenger seat. We're stopped at the crosswalk and this college student - talking on his cell phone, eating an apple, and listening to his Ipod - leisurely crossed in front of us. The kid was more intent on talking and eating rather than crossing. When Mr. Crankypants saw that the kid was wearing flip flop when the temperature was in the 40's, that was the straw that broke the llama's back. Mr. Crankypants threw a vicious elbow into my ribs, and snarled, "Hit the son of a bitch!"

Then he rolled down the window, pounded the side of the car, and screamed, "Hey! We're driving here!"

In his sleep, Mr. CP's been mumbling something about John Boehner's country-club tan. I don't know what that's all about, and I have no intention of asking Mr. CP about it.

With him being gloom and impending doom, I've decided to take him on vacation. I'm taking him camping, where he'll sip whiskey, eat cabbage bombs, and sleep underneath the stars. There he will live an idyllic existence free of idiots, politics, and absurdness. I'm hoping that the stick of dynamite will be reduced to a mere firecracker.

We'll send you dispatches from the road.

chompin' on a bit I just can't spit,

muddywaters