I reckon it’s time for a little catchup—probably late for it.
I’m officially 55 now, which means I’m collecting doctors and medical appointments like Pokémon. Mrs. Otherdamncook is completely different. She avoids medical intervention unless it physically bites her in the ass. Honestly, it seems to work—because in all our time together, I think she’s been to a doctor maybe ten times.
I’m supposed to see my doctor twice a year for blood pressure management. I usually only go once—on my birthday. It’s just easier that way. Less going on. This year was trickier, since I also booked appointments with a cardiologist, colorectal surgeon, and urologist. A real birthday trifecta.
The other reason I book all my annual medical stuff on my birthday is because I don’t celebrate the damn thing. And on the drive back from my first appointment, I started thinking about why.
I stopped giving a shit about birthdays around 25. Back then, they felt achievement-based:
15 – learner’s permit.
16 – driver’s license and legal employment.
18 – vote, buy cigarettes, get drafted.
21 – drink legally.
25 – cheaper car insurance.
After that, it all felt arbitrary. I think 30 was supposed to be my last “rite of passage.” I had plans involving sushi and my older brother—a man I loved dearly—but other stuff got in the way, and it ended up being just me, my wife, and son at Joe’s Crab Shack. Joe’s fucking Crab Shack. That might’ve been the moment I decided my birthdays were bullshit. But that’s still not the why.
The why is this: birthdays became a yearly reminder that my life still wasn’t what I wanted it to be. Another lap around the sun with nothing to show for it but existential whiplash. I've talked about "borrowed ambition" before, so I’ll leave that alone here. But anyway—those were the thoughts swirling in my head as I pulled into the driveway.
And that’s when it hit me.
This year? I should be celebrating. I’ve lived my life on my own terms this past year. I laid the foundation for the future I actually want. Doesn’t mean I’ll succeed—but it means I finally had the freedom to try. I never had that in my old life. But by God, I have it now. My fifty-fifth birthday was worth celebrating. And I almost missed it. That realization? Best enlightenment based birthday gift I’ve ever recieved. Thanks, Universe!
That said, things aren’t great. My blood pressure meds don’t work anymore—probably due to weight gain and too much beer. I’ve got a fistulotomy scheduled next week to remove an extra asshole (not metaphorical this time), and my insurance sucks. The guy across the street, whom I thought was cool, has turned out to be an angry, drunken, raving dingdong who’s declared war on his next-door neighbor. Doesn’t care about those who have done nothing to offend him. We’re just collateral damage and he’s fine with that.
The neighborhood’s going downhill fast. We have to move. It’s not safe anymore. I used to walk to the mailbox with my idiot Pomeranian. Now I carry a .45. We can’t afford to move, and even if we could, we have no idea where to go. The only thing we do agree on is that the availability of services is important, particularly as illustrated by my butthole and rural Texas healthcare is crap—and not likely to improve in the current political climate.
But enough of that shit. Let’s talk about food.
My birthday bumps right up against July 4th, which means barbecue and a visit from the Offspring. Also: presents. And the presents were—gloriously—food-related.
The Wife got me a new hat and a can of La Tourangelle black truffle oil. Both perfect. The Offspring went full extra, as usual: a Death’s Head II action figure, a KitchenAid meat grinder/sausage stuffer, an instant-read thermometer, and a four-probe wireless thermometer setup. Which I immediately put to use on the barbecue. (He’s single, ladies.)
This year’s ritual animal sacrifice included two racks of St. Louis-style ribs and two pork loin roasts—both bacon-cured and smoked. The cure works great for roasts, but it’s a bit much on ribs. I even cut the salt this time, and they still leaned a little too “cure-y” for my taste. Oddly enough, the Wife and Offspring—normally salt-sensitive—had no complaints. Cooking school drilled into us that food must be seasoned, not just flavored, and I guess that stuck.
I also smoked a brisket point I found at a good price—pre-trimmed, which was new for me. Rubbed it, smoked it, and... it hit temp too fast. I pulled it too early, rested it too soon, and didn’t get the fat rendered the way I wanted. Flavor was good, with a decent smoke ring, but texture was off. I salvaged it with a slow oven braise. A little dry, but edible.
I’d just found out about the surgery the day before the smoke, so I was stressed. I cook when I’m tense. And smoking doesn’t require much attention, so I knocked out some handmade biscuits while waiting. Just. Fucking. Wonderful.
Next up: the new video.
I’m shooting this weekend. Yeah, it’s another breakfast. Sort of. You can eat anything whenever. But it’s my kind of breakfast: Shrimp & scramble. It’s comfort food—and I need that right now.
What’s cool is that the video will focus on tasks and techniques:
– How I cook rice
– How I marinate shrimp
– How I scramble eggs
– How I sauté shrimp
– How I dispatch a pineapple (assuming I can find a ripe one)
– How I sear pineapple
– How I use a slurry-based sauce
Lots of small steps, then assembly at the end. I’m really looking forward to it. No idea when I'll edit it together as I understand sitting will not be a comfortable option for a while. Time will tell.
Now go cook something.
