I need to look at packaging more closely.  This supremely delicious Trader Joe’s Bacon and Spinach Sald (which is easily the tastiest salad they make) is 880 calories with 70g of fat!

OMFG.  That’s 105% of all my fat for a whole day, and 85% of my saturated fat allotment.  Not to mention 2/3 of my day’s sodium.  How is this possible?  Of course I had to eat the whole thing before I was able to flip over the package.

Mind you, this is a 6oz. salad.  It’s not even a Big Salad.

Caveat emptor, bitches!

The Eatgeek kitchen’s been full steam ahead lately.  In celebration of our birthday yesterday (Cancers!), we concocted our favorite meal: the pantry raid. Basically, throw everything on the counter and see what comes up. We had ground beef, eggs, half loaf of bread, garlic, red potatoes, parsley, soy milk, about 3 lbs. of inedible leftovers… Verdict: meatloaf!

No loaf pan so we did the freeform thing.  Subbed out more garlic for the 1/2 onion we somehow didn’t have. Subbed vanilla (I know, I know) soy mik for regular milk (which was okay in this application but highly unrecommended), and multigrain bread for white bread.  Glazed with about 1/2 cup ketchup…baked to 160…pretty good! We sliced into it too early and it fell apart.  Still tasty, though.

Peas!  They tasted better than they look.  Is there any vegetable out there that freezes better or is more universal than peas?  I think not.

Parsley potatoes.  Quartered reds simmered till tender, then tossed with butter, salt and — wait for it — parsley!

Birthdays are great excuses for raucous flights of gluttony, and we’ll do all that next week.  But sometimes, birthdays are also for remining you what’s really important in life, and being with the people you love.

Without question, the highlight of this 4th of July was the first annual rib-off versus my brother-in-law, B.I.L.  B.I.L has significant advantages:  a smoker…deep(er) pockets…past success…two kids…a Prada shirt.  Undaunted, I charged forward with my Smart&Final card, and guts.  Guts, goddammit!

Four racks of baby back ribs.  I did not get what I paid for.  They smelled funny.  (B.I.L., sorry I failed to mention this to you.  And your wife.)

The rub:  brown sugar, salt, chili powder, and a bunch of other shit I found in our cupboard.  I think it was too much.  Plus, I made about 1 1/2 cups of rub which I would later find out is enough for, oh, about 12 racks of ribs.  Did I accidentally use all 1 1/2  cups on my 4 racks?  Yes.  Yes I did.

Getting ready to rub some ribs.  (Note that I didn’t go there.)

Rubbed, rested and ready for a 12-hour nap in the fridge.

After resting in the fridge, we poured about a half cup of liquid in each pouch (white wine, worcestershire, honey, garlic) and let them braise for about 3 hours in a 250° oven.  It would smell very good very fast.  Just saying.

Post-bake, we reduced the braising liquid into a glaze, painted the ribs, and broiled it crispy chewy.

The ribs came out fall-off-the-bone tender, but had a funky, totally un-rib-like flavor.  It wasn’t right.  It was nasty, frankly.  I think the combination of bad meat plus too much rub yielded something pretty inedible.  They were still suprisingly popular, though.  Most satisfying comment:  “Damn you, Louie, and your melt-in-your-mouth texture!”

B.I.L’s Ribs

B.I.L.’s smoker is about the most beautiful piece of hardware I have ever seen.  It smells like success.  Jerk.

Hardwood chips soaking in water.  He’s not messing around.  Bastard.

The lid comes off and out of the thick, rich smoke emerges super-dark, nearly shellacked ribs.  What an ass.

Look at that smoke ring!

Okay, his ribs rocked.  Deep, deep smoke flavor, good salt, pork that was actually porky.  B.I.L was disappointed with the toothsomeness, but I flavor beats out tenderness every time.

So in the end, they were being nice and voted it a tie.  But B.I.L. won fair and square.  Not bad for my first time, but I’m looking forward to my comeback come Labor Day.  Retribution!

Dave’s Insanity Sauce ranks third in my all-time-top-five least delectable food moments, right behind fuzzy cheese and my own vomit. (Ed. note — Harsh! And a little gross) This innocuous looking hot sauce is not — NOT — to be confused with similarly cheesy bottles. This isn’t some novelty pico you buy at Phoenix International for grandma’s souvenir. It is easily the most molten substance I have ever laid tongue to*, and this from a guy who tends to brutally slather all manners of sriracha, pico, Tabasco, ichimi togarashi, chili paste, what have you, on just about everyting. I was cynical to the “insanity,” and soon, I would know the cruel hand of Dave.

One fork tine into the sauce for a taste and my mouth is instantly flooded with a searing hot ambrosia akin to eating lit charcoal, but with less flavor. There’s no temperature curve. The good times last for about 3 minutes before I steal my niece’s milk. Amazingly, I’m stupid enough to try it again. You know, in case the first time was fluke, or in case the sauce cooled off somehow.

Now Dave’s introduces Adjustable Heat Sauce. Turn the dial from mild to spicy. Call me with how it is.

*note that we didn’t go there