The Barbs, On Two Non-Consecutive Occasions

Despite their seeming similarity, those two strips of from two non-consecutive events. Right along there with liking the way you look is that when you try to push 6 people into a photo booth there's gonna be a whole lot of somebody's head. I guarantee it. One of these came after a day-long birthday party on American street, watermelons and piñatas included. Also a thunderstorm. We showed up at 1:00 AM perfectly drenched to blend in with the the sweat-soaked crowd that was already there trying to finally topple building to the ground. 

A couple weekends later I was wearing a bowtie and we had all been at a wedding. It sounds more out of place than it actually was though; I was wearing shorts and we had ridden our bikes to the reception. And there's nothing The Barbary appreciates more than riding a bicycle to a fancy event. Beth & Rafiq had put on a little summer fête champêtre up at the B2G2, complete with a jumble of wine-inspired glasses.

The original plan of course was to pedicab the bride and groom to the reception down Germantown Ave., with a procession of bike riders following behind. It eventually turned into just Evan, my dad, Larry, and me making the ride. It'll still be hard to beat that time we took a warm summer evening's ride through North Philly in bow ties, seersuckers, and pink jackets though.

Or that time they had self-serve Vernor's and Evan Williams at the reception. The worst part of that sentence is Vernor's, but the best part is self-serve.

Also, the Trudeaus came. Because what kind of party would it be without them?

Enter the 30s

I recently turned 30. As the last of the Barnebey Brothers to do so, I felt some pressure to out-do the previous 30th celebrations at the B2G2. There had already been a luau/pig roast and a whole goat butchered and spit roasted—I was left with few options other than to out meat my older brothers. And thus the 30 Meats for 30 Years was born. And what better time to finally bring the mythical Osturducken Hen to realization!

We'd been batting around the Osturducken ball for a couple of years; ever since a late-in-the-night Thanksgiving conversation got us thinking about how to one-up a turducken—the turducken having become common enough to be unimpressive. The solution: stick the turducken into an ostrich, and while we're at it, let's stick a cornish game hen in there as well. And so the Osturducken Hen was born. And it was a glorious occasion. 

Initial research led to gauzy South African references to an Osturducken of lore, although any documentation of such a beast having ever actually been produced was always conspicuously absent. And there was certainly never a mention of a game hen chaser. There was however frequent reference to the number of chickens which can be stuffed inside one camel for the purpose of roasting. If you ever find yourself with 80 chickens, a camel, and a large crowd to feed you know what to do.

The Osturducken Hen Operation faced resistance from all sides right from the very beginning, not the least of which was a strong current of paternal naysaying. The most pressing issue of course was where do you buy an ostrich from. Or put slightly differently, who would be willing to sell us an entire ostrich? Do not fall into the trap of thinking that just because you've seen an ostrich burger, or an ostrich steak somewhere that you can go out and order a whole bird from you neighborhood meatman. I've heard it before and it's not true. 

Look into its eyes.

That being said, the search began. Philadelphia's usually reliable exotic meat merchants proved not only unable to supply us but also uninterested in the challenge. Internet research yielded countless ostrich farms, none in the whole-bird business. Eataly recommended going south, maybe South Carolina or Georgia. We considered it. Evan put in for a day off work to allow for driving time.

The search went on with varying degrees of intensity for months. Until finally, from the unlikeliest of corners, came the call: "I've got a guy with an ostrich. He'll kill it Friday morning for you. You have to pick it up though." And so it came to pass that Evan went to see my birthday present killed and kleaned on a Friday morning. 

Still alive when he showed up, our bird was quickly separated from the herd, blindfolded, and shot in the head. With a supererogatory slit to the throat, it was drained, hung from a tractor, skinned, and gutted. Documentation of the process was allowed, but only with the stipulation, "Just don't put that on the damn internet." So I guess I won't. You probably don't want to see it anyway, turns out ostriches have a lot of blood hidden in those long necks.

Here is Evan demonstration just how long that neck is:

Are you confused by the geometry of that carcass? Don't worry, I'll explain. That hole up top is the neck hole. Then its back, which is where all the meats are located. And then the drumstick, cut off above the ankle. Here's a visual. Here's another:

First up was a quick bath in the kitchen sink.

And then backbone removal(!).

And finally the trussing. The (other) birds had all been brined the day before, but the deboning was still left to do. Here's a surprise, a duck is much easier to debone than a chicken. Remember that for the next time Padma let's you choose your own fowl.

With the deboning complete we stuffed a turkey into the ostrich, a duck into the turkey, a chicken into the duck, and a cornish game hen into the chicken. Then tied the whole thing into one ostrich-sized meat-bindle. And then wrapped it all in bacon, to seal in the moisture.

And with that we stuck it in the 4 foot hole Evan had dug in our dad's back yard, covered it with coals and hot rocks, and threw some dirt over it. Extrapolating from google's recommendations for cooking a pig in a pit, we estimated our ~130 lbs of meat would take 15-16 hours. We put it into the hole at the stroke of midnight. By 8:00 AM our remote thermometer had hit 160° F. It turns out we are nothing if not decidedly able to build an amazing bed of coals. Such a bed of coals that you can cook an ostrich in 8 hours!

Here's the thing though. The Osturducken Hen was only the beginning. The meat parade actually started off with a family-sized pack of Tijuana Mamas (300% hotter than a regular mama) which arrived by post. These little numbers were a fixture of Rochester Crew Springs for several years running, for no good reason at all.

And after that the meats started pouring in. Here is a picture of the B2G2 early in the afternoon with only one meat, a box of wine, and a bottle of beer.

Immediately after this picture was taken the table filled to the brims with meats, the keg was kicked, I was wearing a Taco costume, and all the Oreo™s had been deep fried. Because we had an industrial sized deep fryer. And Joanna had made me a Taco costume, so that I could play the part of a meat also. Or at least that's how I remember it happening.

Ostrich leg & associates.

One taco—lettuce, tomato, guac, and cheese please.

And also, the serious black & white polaroid taco. Because Vivienne (joint 30ther) is amazing and believes in the impossible.

The rest of the night? Mostly a blur of amazing, mixed with awesomeness and low-light pictures. Highlights included, but were not limited to:

1. The Meats
2. The deep fried quail
3. The deep fried pickles
4. The deep fried Oreo™s
5. The other meats
6. The Taco dances
7. The boots
8. The empty keg at 10:00 PM
9. The extra cases of beer
10. The Deep fried alligator

No really, THE DEEP FRIED ALLIGATOR. A winner for most unexpectedly delicious meat.


   11. THE CAKE
   12. The Meat List:

   13. Late night deep fried fish.

   14. The roast lamb.

   15. This picture:

The Ukraine has no time for smiles, only winters.

    16. And also this picture:

Giant bones require giant cups.

Final thoughts:

I'm going to buy my dad a deep fryer so that we don't have to keep renting this guy.

And, Darcy better watch herself the next time she's inside my Taco.

Taco Wrap

The Hammer and Stumper

A couple of weeks ago my dad demanded that we spend a Saturday ripping out the entire side patio, leveling it, and then re-laying it all over again. And all because he thought those rustic hills and dales were becoming dangerous. As usual with our home remodeling/landscaping endeavors, this patio isn't perfect—don't look at those lines too closely. It is masterfully mediocre though, and vastly adequate. And it was just waiting to be broken in with an event happening. 

Enter: The 3 Chickens. One mustard barbeque, one honey jalapeño, one bleu cheese stuffed buffalo. All three spatchcocked and brined. Grilling time: 2 hours.

Other benefits of this re-newed, re-leveled patio? It's finally flat enough to support a stump pile. I've been saving that top stump special.

We may not have the appropriate hammer but at least we've got these old timey nails. And the added excitement of tetanus.

This beer garden is really starting to come together. The Boot is already well established, and now The Stump? It's like Das kleine München over here. We're even on Foursquare.

Morning left-overs.

TG Ds and DNs

DO NOT:

  ➠ try to spatchcock a goose. It's not a chicken, get over it.

  ➠ cook your gingersnap crust for 45 minutes, Darcy.

  ➠ leave your matches next to the stove.

  ➠ mistake the garbage bowl for the salad bowl.

DO:
  ➠ wear Joanna's Turkey Hat at the dinner table.

  ➠ build a fire; roast your goose on a fire


  ➠ stay up late playing drinking games with your dad.

Frankfurter Friday Recap

In Which the Barnebeys Play Games, but I get upset when Evan's jawn beats me.

Life has been really rough the past couple of weeks. After that whole wedding shenanigan down in Charlottesville, I only had a couple of days to decompress before I had to start grilling hot doggs and concocting slaws last Friday. Then, the next morning, Papa Barnebey (a.k.a. The Old Welshman) got us all  out on some wild bike ride up to Phoenixville. I had to borrow a bike with gears. How embarrassing.

Luckily we took Sunday off to just play some games. No long guest lists, no aching bike butt; just some cards, a wood fire, and later, a scrabble board.

Kermit came out for a little bit, demanding to be included, so we let him hold some 3's and 4's in his big froggy hands, just to keep him quiet. Too bad sheepshead only uses Ace - 7.

By half-time I was leading and the kielbasa was ready to come off the grill, so we broke for lunch. It may look familiar.

[Look at all those TUBs!]

Later, after a trip to the custard stand, we reconvened on the deck for some Scrabble. It started off well enough with a cheeseboard, wines, and a bingo.

[The only pen to score Scrabble with is a Le Pen.]

This picture was snapped at the peak of our Scrabble high. The first game had just finished and had gone well. Despite the lead I had held since my SMUGGLE play, everyone was still feeling good about their scrabbling— the board had been open and the vowels had been well distributed.

Soon into the 2nd game though, things started to head south. The scores were close and people were getting testy. Then I was denied the use of GERMY. Look it up. Then I had to fight for AD and MAW. By the time I played OI, the table was set for an insurrection. Forced to use RID instead, I had to accept 2 fewer points, and more importantly, use my R. R's can be indispensable at the end of a game. 

Soon Roxy had gone out, Evan had given her the 12 points still left on his rack, and I had lost the game by 1 point. Some things were said. Words were questioned, dictionaries were questioned, peoples' characters were questioned. It was not a Scrabble high. Later, after consulting The Official Scrabble® Dictionary, Evan tried to debate what it meant to be a word, effectively calling into question not only my Scrabble knowledge but also the subject in which I'm getting a doctorate. Thanks. At least we could agree that jawn is a perfectly valid and useful word.

I'm not sure when we're going to play Scrabble again.

Frankfurter Friday

In the continuing tradition of Ethnic Eating Events, last night was Frankfurter Friday at the B2G2 (The Barnebey's Beer Garden & Grille). You may be asking yourself right now, "Is Frankfurt really an ethnicity?". Maybe, maybe not. The important part is it alliterates with a day of the week, and it gave me a really good excuse to recreate The Dogg Haus in my parents' backyard.

I obviously started off with a Wisconsin Dogg and I think that's Evan stuffing a Sante Fe into his mouth. There were only more sausages to come.

At last count, the grill had smoked 10 varieties of meat in stick form, 14 toppings had been topped, 4 cheeses had been cheesed, 8 polkas had been polka-ed, 4 boots drank, and 6 (cole-)slaws slawed. Monday is Montego Monday.