Beer can chicken the best holiday meal
My favorite Christmas present this year or any other year was
the beer butt chicken rack given to me by my brother Gary Cherry.
Gary and I went to different high schools together as we were
separated at birth in the Ozarks by Ma Kettle. You will always know
when Gary and I are together because you can hear the theme
from
”
Deliverance.
”
Beer can chicken the best holiday meal
My favorite Christmas present this year or any other year was the beer butt chicken rack given to me by my brother Gary Cherry. Gary and I went to different high schools together as we were separated at birth in the Ozarks by Ma Kettle. You will always know when Gary and I are together because you can hear the theme from “Deliverance.”
The beer butt chicken rack can’t be bought here in Hollywood, Beverly Hills or any fine store anywhere. After trying it on Christmas Day, I wanted to buy some for all my friends who love to drink beer, barbecue, drink beer, eat chicken and did I mention drink beer?
The secret to the simple wire rack is shoving an open can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer up the butt of your favorite Foster Farms former resident and cook on the barbecue or in the oven. In a little over one hour you have the most crispy on the outside, moist on the inside, chicken you have ever tasted.
Heck, I didn’t even have to put most of my teeth in, it was that tender. Gary lives in Hollister. Gary will not tell me where he bought the culinary wonder. Gary has sibling rivalry issues as he thinks he is a little better than me because his home has indoor plumbing.
He was supposed to move to Hollywood when he left Hooterville, but his wife, Carole, was reading the map and got as far as Holl and since she is blind in one eye, she uses her bra as an eye patch, and is one cup short.
Almost as funny is President-elect Barack Obama doing exactly what the white, old Republican wanted to do for the economy. Obama believes just as McCain in the trickle down theory where you bail out the rich and some of the money trickles down to the poor. I, on the other hand, believe in the trickle up theory, where you give to us poor and we will spend like crazy as it trickles up. With my theory you will know exactly how many flat screen televisions and what type of cars to manufacture. We should have voted for a Chicano for president. You want change? Hey, what is Air Force One doing up on blocks on the White House lawn? Aye chee waa waa.
My only prediction for the New Year is that the San Francisco Giants will sign the Iraqi who threw his shoes at President Bush. He missed Bush by a foot. Two feet, if you count both shoes. Just like a Giant pitcher. Bush league.
Answer to last week’s quick quiz. Clint Eastwood has never won the Oscar for best actor. He has won it for producing the best picture of the year and best director. For an unprecedented 750 bonus points, what Golden Globe nomination is he up for this year? Not acting, not directing, not screenplay, not producing? So what is left?
Speaking of Clint Eastwood, his present to all of us this Christmas is the best Christmas movie ever made, “Gran Torino,” which already won him the best acting award from the National Board of Review and best movie nominations all around the world. Don’t be fooled by the ads the film for teens and adults is much more believable and inspiring than “It’s a Wonderful Life,” which wasn’t.
Sorry to hear about Fortino’s, but not the least bit surprised. We still enjoy the big screen television we bought a year before we left Hollister from Fortino’s. I use to hate it when people tell me what a jerk I was for buying in Hollister when they could get it cheaper in San Jose.
In fact, Fortino’s was always competitive and the tax, always a big chunk on big-ticket items, was a boon to Hollister. I always loved when I asked somebody where they were going and they would say, “Gotta take this television, furniture or whatever back to San Jose as it broke down.” Thank you, Mr. And Mrs. Fortino and all you local merchants who are keeping the tax dollar in San Benito County.
Last week in my column about 1958, I mentioned the greatest teacher of life a smart butt-teen could ever have, Frances Ramoni. Her only sin was telling the FBI she didn’t know me. Frances was my supervisor at Mauro’s Stationers, which never moved once when I was there in 1958. When I joined the army, I was selected for a Top Secret job.
The FBI does an extensive background check. When they talked to Frances, she jokingly said she’d never heard of me. The FBI agents, the men in black, did not smile. Remember this was still the FBI run by J. Edgar Hoover. But even J. Edgar Hoover’s finest couldn’t resist the most beautiful woman ever, and I don’t mean Hoover in a dress. Aye chee waa waa.
