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3 a.m. party grub


chappie
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We just had our annual Christmas party, and once again in the wee hours I hazily devized a concoction (see Toaster Pig for another brainstorm) that only the precise, scientific dosage of Dark and Stormies, clementine champagne cocktails, beer and a bottle of Cisco (!) could inspire.

I split open several biscuits, slathered them with the casino butter (bacon, bacon grease, onion, red and green pepper, garlic, parmesan, hot sauce and butter) I'd been using for oysters, spread on mustard and a generous dollop of mango chutney, then stuffed them with ham and brie. Baked in the oven until gooey, they were so freaking good people have called me about them.

In fact, I might not have even remembered making these unless people had called to describe them.

What are your most memorable, late-night, gluttonous creations?

Edited by chappie (log)
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Too many boiler makers one evening led some friends and I to play the "can it be made into a burrito" game.

My favorite was the peanut butter and jelly burrito, other popular choices included the leftover jambalaya burrito, the sauerkraut and salad dressing burrito, and the cheato burrito (it rhymes :biggrin:)

Alamut was the mountain fortress of Hassan i Sabbah and the later heads of the Assassins. Alamut represents more than just a physical place, more even than a symbolic home of the movement. Alamut was with you in what you did; Alamut was in your heart from the moment of your arrival and introduction to "Heaven" until the moment you died.

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I learned the hard way to never operate a range or use knives when honestly and seriously drunk. Soooo...

Throw open the refrig and hang onto the door. Wait until the cold revives me. Open one eye, don't want to overload the senses with all that light and food. Hmm. Cold mashed potatoes. An open can of peas. One large, plastic (thank-god, no glass to break) bottle of ketchup. Hmm. I think you can figure this one out.

Sit on the floor with the pot of cold taters, dump the can of peas in, squirt the ketchup over all and eat. A spoon is optional, truly. Fall asleep bathed in the warm glow of the open refrig.

Please realize, these food choices were made by my dearly departed brain-cells of youthful singledom. I'm much more sophisticated now. I own a microwave.

Shelley: Would you like some pie?

Gordon: MASSIVE, MASSIVE QUANTITIES AND A GLASS OF WATER, SWEETHEART. MY SOCKS ARE ON FIRE.

Twin Peaks

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A friend had a loft party Saturday night - much dancing and carousing. Had a wonderfully fresh caipirinha and then a few silo cups of some "wild" sangria (Champagne, brandy, Coke, apples, oranges, one whole pineapple... whole meaning a huge uncut mass floating in the middle of it all, red, club soda, and a bunch of other stuff I can't remember).

Rolled home at 4:30 am. and was FAMISHED.

A huge bowl of steamed rice mixed up with mounds of shredded cheese. Big chunks of roasted chicken crisped in a pan with some good evoo. Sliced sweet grape tomatoes mixed w/ minced garlic, lemon, salt, pepper, honey... Large, rough, toasted pieces of a sourdough baguette. Yummy gravy from the roast chicken poured liberally over all. And finally, Lea & Perrins poured all over the top of this already heaping mess.

Fell into bed @ 6 am just as the alarm clock was going off...

raquel

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe -Roy Batty

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I learned the hard way to never operate a range or use knives when honestly and seriously drunk. Soooo...

Throw open the refrig and hang onto the door. Wait until the cold revives me. Open one eye, don't want to overload the senses with all that light and food. Hmm. Cold mashed potatoes. An open can of peas. One large, plastic (thank-god, no glass to break) bottle of ketchup. Hmm. I think you can figure this one out.

Sit on the floor with the pot of cold taters, dump the can of peas in, squirt the ketchup over all and eat. A spoon is optional, truly. Fall asleep bathed in the warm glow of the open refrig. 

Please realize, these food choices were made by my dearly departed brain-cells of youthful singledom. I'm much more sophisticated now. I own a microwave.

:laugh::laugh: That reminds me of college! One very, very late night a friend of mine started eating leftover mashed and gravy out of tupperware without a utensil. The gravy container was quite tricky. :raz:

Eating pizza with a fork and knife is like making love through an interpreter.
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"Nutella, meet.....whatever. Whatever, Nutella!"

A bowl of microwaved Spaghetti-Os is the blank canvas upon which dreams are given substance.

Everybody and everything seem younger at a party. Leftovers included.

Matt Robinson

Prep for dinner service, prep for life! A Blog

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At 3am after a night of carousing, I am content to let others do the cooking for me. Besides, what I really crave in such a situation, namely classic 24-hour diner grub (greaseburger and fries or scrambled eggs and hashbrowns), the professionals do better than I do--even when I'm not fried or scrambled myself.

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The best middle-of-the-night drunken grubfest I can remember involved a big wokful of fried rice. Due to general inebriation, the cayenne container accidentally fell into the wok, releasing great clouds of cayenne all over everything.

Only one of my four roommates at the time would eat it with me, and we chowed down.

But the next day, upon attempting to eat the leftovers, it became apparent that the rice was WAY too hot to be safely eaten.

The realization of the impending pain in our near future was frightening, indeed.

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I learned the hard way to never operate a range or use knives when honestly and seriously drunk. Soooo...

Throw open the refrig and hang onto the door. Wait until the cold revives me. Open one eye, don't want to overload the senses with all that light and food. Hmm. Cold mashed potatoes. An open can of peas. One large, plastic (thank-god, no glass to break) bottle of ketchup. Hmm. I think you can figure this one out.

Sit on the floor with the pot of cold taters, dump the can of peas in, squirt the ketchup over all and eat. A spoon is optional, truly. Fall asleep bathed in the warm glow of the open refrig. 

Please realize, these food choices were made by my dearly departed brain-cells of youthful singledom. I'm much more sophisticated now. I own a microwave.

Disgusting menu. Charming vignette. I came back and read it again---it was that good.

I cannot claim the senseless groping for sustenance evinced in some of the above threads, as I was (am) alas, the Designated Driver in every instance of my participation in youthful/idiotic revelry, due to my dislike of almost everything alcoholic. In addition to the taste part, two sips of Christmas champagne and I can't find the kitchen to finish up dinner.

So, on all the evenings in which my friends and colleagues could let down their hair and tie one on (insert various drunken cliches here) I was the sober one, even to the extent of carrying my own very strong tea once in a Crown bottle, enclosed in its snug little purple bag, to a BYOB joint which provided only ice, mixers and enough smoke to blanket a city. I sat, enjoying the music and dancing and shouted conversation, pouring glass after glass of tea over my ice, until a gentleman who had claimed me for several dances remarked that I had an astounding tolerance for booze. He had watched me drink it straight, an entire bottle of it, and their table was probably making book on the time I would slide under the table. I remember the disappointment on his face as I laughed and told him it was plain old Lipton's. he probably had a twenty down on 11:30.

We had a wonderful after-hours little hole in the wall---a "caffay" attached to a little grimy hotel, a 24-hours on Saturday joint, with two fry cooks, a couple of take-no-prisoners waitresses in nylon dresses, and the best coffee and grits in the area. An aura of bacon and coffee and smoke enveloped us as we strolled through the sticker-encrusted door. Thin men embracing coffecups squinted up through their hazes and flickered us with a glance. Tiny women in Chic jeans and hairdos wider than their skinny hips trailed clouds of Shalimar as their stilettos toddled them on a staggering path toward the rest room near the kitchen.

We recognized faces, night-wanderers---the price of a cup their ticket to warmth and a seat, the grudging companionship of a lighted place their haven from whatever demons and cold they were escaping for a time.

Those big old brown coffee mugs would thump onto the table as soon as our fannies hit the turquoise vinyl---the brew black and scalding and perfect, the healing steam rising. Fat tumblers of ice water followed, with the sticky syrup pitcher, a big bowl of yellow butter, and a quick swipe at the gunky ketchup lid.

A forlorn Tabasco bottle and another of A-1 stood beside the big glass sugar dispenser, and the obligatory one-on-every-table ashtray, a tarnished brassy dish with the grays of a thousand grindouts branded into the bottom.

We looked at the grimy menu, for politeness' sake. The little flappy insert announcing Thursday's Liver Special might have been from a Thursday decades in the past, and the liver equally ancient. Waitress waited. Snap of gum, quick grab of pencil from behind ear---poised over pad; an almost audible tap of impatient Dr. Scholl's. We ordered: Steak and eggs for the hearty contingent, a Denver for me, a simple bowl of grits for Mary, whose ulcers were profound and burps legendary---she was a size 2, but could bellow forth eructations to blanch the faint of heart.

We'd sit and wind down the evening, breathing shallow breaths of the smoke-laden air, wondering whyever we came back to this dingy place. The omelet was magnificent, a golden pillow laden with perfectly-cooked peppers and bits of still-crisp sweet onion, little dices of ham and great strings of good hearty cheese. The biscuits were high and brown and fluffy; grits were velvety, and the coffee, as above, perfect.

There are hangover cures and there are munchies and there are midnight forays into the depths of an uncertain fridge. But what you want is Breakfast.

Edited by racheld (log)
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There was a time - and I'm sure some remember - when we called this phenomenon "the screaming munchies". True, didn't follow alcohol consumption but indulgence in another substance and at that time best options were peanut butter and bacon sandwiches, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, peanut and sardine sandwiches, peanut butter straight from the jar, and of course an outrageous number of chocolate sundaes with hot fudge, whipped cream and all of the gooey stuff that went with such treats.

Oyez, oyez.....there truly were "good old days". And not a hangover to follow the overindulgence!

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Hot, greasy breakfast food, either cooked by me, Denny's or some diner. In addition to the grease, must include protein, fruit juice and butter/grease laden slathered starch. Some combination of the following, taking at least two from each group:

Protein: eggs cooked any style but never overcooked and no crispy, papery bits; cheese -- nothing fancy. American, cheddar, swiss, jack. Ham, bacon, scrapple, sausage, steak (medium rare). Additions such as sauteed onions, mushrooms, peppers fine but not mandatory.

Starch: Hot buttered toast or english muffin, grits with rivers of butter (cheese too sometimes), pancakes again with unholy amounts of butter and maple syrup, home fries (not those shredded potato things).

Beverages: Cold orange or apple juice, coffee, tons of water, and--if eating pancakes or waffles--whole milk on the rocks.

Appropriate amounts of Tabasco and Texas Pete hot sauce. :biggrin:

Add a b-complex vitamin and a beer if in really bad shape. :rolleyes:

Inside me there is a thin woman screaming to get out, but I can usually keep the Bitch quiet: with CHOCOLATE!!!

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My most memorable was not a creation but was uhhhh... a food editing process. I orded a pizza "with everything on it" whilst walking home extremely hammered after an evening at my neighborhood gin mill. Was too wasted to sit there and wait for the pie to cook so I paid for delivery and walked the three blocks home.

Passed out at the kitchen table and was awakened by the delivery guy (had to be close to 3 AM at this point). I awoke with a most serious hangover at noon the next day and spent a few minutes assessing the dark shriveled up bits of something that were stuck to my kitchen walls (these little critters were everywhere!).

Ahhhh... anchovies! An item I love on salads and detest on pizza. It appears that I unceremoniously removed every single anchovy as I ate the pie and hurled them in random directions to discard. Food editing indeed.

By the way - the pizza was terrible - the only way one could eat it was to be at least half drunk (but this pizza shop did plenty of business - tells you something about my old neighborhood back in those days).

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