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Jett Superior laid this on you on || April 16, 2010 || 9:13 pm

vegetarians and prudes will hate this post

At my house, your garden variety meatloaf has long been monikered ‘meatlog’. This name, of course, has a story attached. When he was about ten or eleven, I was pulling my cast iron loaf pan out of the oven when Sam inhaled deeply through his nose in an elaborately hammed-up gesture of smelling the air around him. He then began to serenade the meatloaf as I drained off the fat in the pan; it began “Ohhhhhh, meatloaf is a delicious log of meeeeaaaat….”

As he literally sang the praises of baked hamburger I had to take a break from meal preparations for a little jag of Goofy Hysteria. And of course you know the rest: Henceforward ‘meatlog’ was the noun of choice when it came to this particular dish.

Now a meatlog made in this house is damn tasty, but like its lesser cousin meatloaf, it isn’t especially attractive. Meatloaf in general tends to be not pretty in the same way a Frankenstein monster isn’t pretty. That is to say, it is a wickedly genius idea but the overall parts turn out to be a thing that is somewhat lumpy and mismatched altogether.

So then I bought an oversized muffin tin and tonight while Mathias squished all the ingredients together in a biggish bowl, I chopped vegetables and watched his nerdy glee over having meat muffins for dinner.

(This week has been a week of lovable dorkitude: He has checked out his first Tolkein book from the library, he spent a good thirty minutes last night asking me all about Mortal Kombat, v. Arcade, he’s shown me short films incessantly. Be still my gol-danged heart, people.)

“We can’t call these ‘meat muffins’,” my husband said, curling his lip slightly. “That just sounds so….prissy. Meat is not prissy, woman.” Ohhhhh, my waylaid vegetarian, long has my heart known you have a chest-beating defender of meat deep inside yourself.

When we were nearly finished with our meal, it came to me.

“Meat Pucks!” I blurted out. What kind of genius am I, huh? This immediately sparked an idea in Maxim.

“MEATWADS!” I raised an eyebrow at this.

All the males at the table got a little chokey, trying not to grow raucous at the dinner table. I eyed Maxim, dirty ringleader, meatwad-blurter, disturber of Basic Dinnertime Decorum (never mind that I’m chiefly the tacky one a greater percentage of the time in these four walls). I swiveled my head toward Maxim, I narrowed my eyes at him.

“No sir, nosiree,” I said, “because I know exactly what that will lead to and there will be NO! regular Aqua Teen Hunger Force re-enactments done around this table. None, you hear me? I have no desire to hear an MC Pee Pants ditty while I’m chewing broccoli!”

Like that sort of thing doesn’t happen enough around here already, for hellsakes. We have to go and egg it on? And so help me God, I forgot just how savvy you get (and just how soon) when your babysitters are also your much-older siblings who think that a somewhat lowbrow education is just as valuable as any other kind.

Mathias can’t so much as hear the words ‘nuts’ and ‘ball’ anymore without completely losing his shit, facial features disappearing into gigantic folds of laughter.

2 worked it out »

  1. Whit 4.17.2010

    Aqua Teen Hunger Force, FTW.

     
  2. Holmes 4.21.2010

    I could never eat anything called Meatwad. I would look down at it on my plate and hear it telling me “Do what I said cuz I said it!”

     

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