Poppy Mom

Meat is Murder

And boy howdy, we're going to do some murderin' this week at Chez Poppy!

After I made last night's post, I plopped myself onto the living room floor and opened the two heavy boxes I got from my editor to take inventory of my Fallen Angel "samples". Here's what I have:

Sauces (all in 15.5-oz. jars)
Ginger Rum BBQ Sauce
Orange Chipotle BBQ Sauce
Kickin' Cranberry BBQ Sauce
Choir Boy Tropical Sauce
Original Sinner Tropical Sauce
Mother of Satan Tropical Sauce

Rubs/Seasoning Blends (in 3.5-oz tins)
San Juan Citrus Rub
Carnivale Rub
Basil's Bar Seafood Boil
Fennel Citrus Pepper
Oistins Market Rub
Smoked Sea Salt (which is so yummy I'm going to eat it by the spoonful)
Old Havana Rub
Lemon Rosemary Salt
Yucatan Achiote Rub
Blue Water Brine
Roasted Five Pepper Salt Blend (which I'll eat by the spoonful when the Smoked Sea Salt is gone)
Calypso Pepper Rub

It's snowing outside. Can you think of a better time for a barbeque? Me, either! Do any of you have a fatted calf you'd like to share for the event? Perhaps you have a haul of shrimp on your shrimp boat you'd be willing to donate to the cause. Seriously. I need meat. Lots of meat. I have an article due on the 5th about this stuff. And since I never do anything halfway, I'm in a meat tizzy, trying to come up with a way to try all 18 products that have taken over my home.

I don't see my editor very often. I've been writing for the magazine since Oct., 2001, and yesterday was the fourth time I've talked to her face-to-face. One of those times lasted about 20 seconds, when I ran into the office to grab a stack of magazines for a coooking class I was teaching. Another time was my job interview.

Now, I'm not a shy person at all. I can - and do - talk to just about anyone, including strangers, the homeless, and people of questionable stability. But something happens to me when I talk to my editor. I turn into Stammering Dumbass Social Retard Girl.

I don't know why. It's not like my editor is intimidating. Far from it. She's without question the coolest boss I've ever had. Very nice, very personable. She's never had a bad thing to say to me and she pretty much lets me do what I please.

I also sweat when I'm in her presence. I sweat a lot. Like I've been eating Carnivale Rub through a bong.

I think I have authority issues, even when the authority is awesome in her down-to-earthedness. So there I stood yesterday, with B. and Clara "St. Louis Baby-Scented Pig Rub" Jane, juggling my lifetime supply of meat enhancements, and uttering such pithy things as, "Uuuuuhhh, the March issue's next, right?" while wiping my sweaty face on the sleeve of my sweater.

Is it any wonder I don't have a real job?

Posted by Robin at February 2, 2005 12:24 PM | TrackBack