The Vomit Quilt

 

 

Officially it's the Jungle Quilt (because Tiia, the Chick's friend with the new baby, worked at the zoo.) 

 

But here at home it is affectionately known as The Vomit Quilt. 

 

When I first started putting those colors together,  Popeye came in and said, "So whatcha makin'?  A baby quilt?"   

"Yup, a baby quilt." 

"Oh.  That's good." 

"Uh, why is that good?" 

"Because if the kid throws up on it, no one will notice." 

I think he was joking, but I'm really not sure. 

 

Oh well, in the event that Tiia thinks it's hideous, at least Pepper likes it. 

 

And I could always hang it in the dining room - for Popeye to enjoy during meals, right?  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Passing of Shadow.

 

 

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed....

                                                

I made the bed alone today.  I didn't time myself, but it was very efficient.  And no fun at all. 

My best little buddy is no longer here to help.  

Bed making was Shadow's specialty.  He would bat, and pull, and roll until the covers were exactly right.  For him. 

I would tug, and slide, and try to glide the sheets from under him while he grabbed all the covers he could hold and made himself heavy. 

Only when the quilt placement was satisfactory and smooth (as if it were his idea), would he settle back down on top for an after-second-breakfast nap. 

There were many mornings I would fondly recite My Shadow for him. Especially the first two lines.



One night at Turkey Creek, I thought I heard someone on another trail yelling for help. 

"No, I think it's those people who were looking for their dog," said Mike.  Oh yeah, I forgot about them.  

We rode on.  The yelling faded away.  When we came back through, all was quiet.  

It occurred to me then that if you really do ever need help from another human, you should yell if you possibly can.  But not just once or twice.  You should yell until you can't yell any more.  Don't rest.  Don't wait quietly for help.  Start crawling.  And don't, whatever you do, pass out.

Because human brains have an amazing capacity to invent some plausible explanation and then go right on with what they were doing.  

I heard the oddly pitched sound from the vicinity of the cat door, and I did get up to look - once my emails were finished and sent.  

"Shadow?  Pepper?"  Pepper came strutting out of the bedroom alone. 

I poked my head out the back door, called Shadow, then went to the front door and did the same.  I came back, popped the cat door and sent it swinging, suspecting the low cross between a groan and a creaking noise had somehow come from it.  No.  

"Probably some animal that got away," was Popeye's suggestion.  

Shadow loved the yard at dusk and often ignored my calls, even for dinner.  Lizards, dragonflies, and the occasional frog or rodent got dragged in through that cat door nightly.  So yeah, maybe some animal.  It never even occurred to me that it could be our animal.

It was a couple more hours before we found him in the darkest corner of the closet, back in under the hanging clothes.  I slid him out carefully, his glossy black fur offering no resistance over the smooth and shiny laminate.  He wasn't moving, and barely breathing.  

No, no, no, no, no.  No, please, not Shadow.

Popeye and I left the emergency animal care clinic a little after midnight.  The vet opened the oxygen case for a moment so we could give our Shadow a good night pat before we left.  On oxygen and pain meds, his eyes fluttered open, just for a moment.  Then closed again. 

And true to my human nature of disbelief, we went home, fully expecting to pick him up in the morning with maybe a splint on his leg.  My brain allowed for no other scenario.  And certainly not the 2 a.m. call to tell me he was gone.

I've had a hard time getting myself to write about this.  It's been two weeks since I fetched his body home to the back yard pet cemetery.   

Whether our own car was the murder weapon, backing out of our own garage, or whether it was someone else's car out on the street, the truth is that taking life for granted is what we humans do.  Life.  And well-being.  And especially tomorrow.  

Shadow had us all completely charmed.  He was a gifted hunter.  He chirped like a Tribble.  He even got sour old Pepper to chase and play.  (Play!)  And yes, I loved him for his spirited assistance with all the household chores.  I miss him every day.

Cats may have secret lives, but there is one thing I know for a certainty about him, and it helps to stop the tears.   

Shadow loved every minute of his life here with us.  

And we loved every moment of his life here with us too.   

 

.... One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

 

(My Shadow.  Robert Louis Stevenson.) 

Sometimes everything goes right.

Although it turned out differently, there were no hints going in that last week might be any good at all.

It rained for days. 

The county commissioners were all set to sell off the "unused land" (i.e., the off-road bike trails) in Wickham Park. 

And although it was a car this time and not a boat trailer, Popeye acquired another smack down on his bike.  The second one in six months. 

Mondays around here are usually rest days.  Which is not a bad thing, considering the rest of the week just took off and ran away with us. 

If it's Tuesday, there's a ride.  For the roadies, there's the Hospital Ride.  For holdouts on the Dark Side, there's the Beer Can Scramble. 

For me, it's a triple feature.  A quick trail run, then the ride, then the scramble.  (Which is actually all quite politely done, but it makes for a snappy moniker.)
 
In spite of all the rain, or maybe because of it, Turkey Creek has been just plain awesome all summer long.  When it rains, Turkey Creek trails only get faster.  (If only I did too.)

The bridges dry quickly. 

The sand stays wet.

Perfect!

By Wednesday though, the rain was pretty steady all day.  Bad for the street ride, but good for making progress on that baby quilt I've been meaning to finish. 

I like to hang each quilt top for a backlit picture before it gets quilted.  Even when it's gray outside, there's a stained glass effect.   

 

 

Rain, rain go away... 

 

Because the rain cleared up a bit by Wednesday night, we both went ahead with our planned rides. 

Popeye's commute home turned out much shorter than expected.

I was probably just arriving at the start of the Full Moon ride as he was being slammed to the pavement by the car behind him at the light on Palm Bay road.  His back wheel took all the damage, though.  Whew!  

 

I always feel safer off road.

Even with this bunch.

 

 

 

Don't look back!  

Ouch.

 

  
Friday morning we take a quick loop up Tropical Trail.  Popeye rides his Fuel, since the commuter bike is non-functional.  I instantly fall off the back.  As usual.  No matter what bike he rides.  At least we got in a bit of a workout.  (Well, I did anyway.) 

Because the afternoon was pure, over-the-top fun. 

Tree Top Trek!  

More like Tree Top Time Travel. 

Wanna be a kid again?  Here's your ticket.  First of all it's at the zoo.  Then you get to wear a bad ass climbing harness.  A few pointers from the guide, and up you go, into the trees. 

Rope challenges throughout the canopy. 20-60 feet up.  Over the heads of zoo animals.  Interspersed with zip lines.  

An Ewok's dream come true.   

 First (and easiest) challenge.

 

Nice landing! 

Yes, the final zip does go right over the alligators.

 

 

There's one now.

Right about the middle of the photo - see it's head?

 

Saturday is another full day.

Long ride in the morning.  Sailing all afternoon.  

And a  check of the new local Intracoastal Brewery Saturday night. 

Thumbs up on every single beer we tried.

4 down...   ??? to go?

Sleep in on Sunday.  Much coffee.  Econ Sunday afternoon.   No stopping - for photos or anything else.  One fast loop around and arrival at the car just before the first spatters of rain come back. 

So, it was 7 straight days of over the top, 100% fun.  I don't know if Popeye forgot all about his near death experience, but I'm pretty glad I did.  And so very grateful for how lucky he was.

(And grateful the Florida texting-while-driving law goes into effect Oct 1st.)

And then even more good news, right before the Beer Can Scramble started the new week off  all over again.

Yes!   The new college did the right thing, even if the county commissioners probably wouldn't have.  The Wickham Park trails are safe - for the time being anyway.

http://www.floridatoday.com/article/20130924/NEWS01/309240022/Eastern-Florida-State-College-drops-park-purchase

 

 

Saved, not paved. 

For now....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

        

8 Hours of Labor 2013. All dirt, no hurt.

"Nothing hurts but your dignity, right?" asks the guy in the blue shirt right behind me.

I have just slammed myself to the ground over a nearly invisible two inch rut in an otherwise seemless stretch of fast downhill meadow grass.   

But that is mountain biking.  All day long you can ride over roots and rocks with scarcely a scratch.  Or you can catch a front wheel in a shallow rut when someone passes unexpectedly, and slam yourself silly in flat, boring grass.  

Never a dull moment.  (And absolutely no dignity.)

The guy in the blue shirt remounts and moves on.  "Thanks for stopping," I say.  The guy who flew by on the right is long gone. 

I stand up and immediately lunge back down to grab at the sudden cramp in my calf.  Darn it, I am going to have to stop a lap early and switch back to the Perpetuum.   My rebellious bit of Gatorade indulgence is over.   Perpetuum, with it's tongue coating, sour-milk aftertaste, wins for distance riding.  Yuck.    

It is past mid day.  Lap five for me.  The lap I had hoped would be my middle loop for the day. 

The guy in the blue shirt has followed my wheel for the last 8 miles and declined to pass.  Other than my asking periodically if he is sure he doesn't want to go by, we have not talked, each in his own bubble of concentration.   

So far, I have passed a grand total of five people.  The rest have been passing me.  I am not the only solo rider in this race, but my little ride world does seem made mostly of relay riders swooping up from behind. 

I like seeing the bright yellow springy bracelets though, dangling from wrists or Camelbaks.  No matter how fast these riders clatter by, the relay bracelets mean they do not count.  Not to me anyway.  And to them?  I am just another solo trail obstacle with a 700 number written on my leg.

 

So how did it all go?

Fine.  It was fine.  (Apologies, Fat Cyclist!  No spin kicks, please.  I know you want the real story.)   But really, it was fine.  Not great.  Not bad.  It was...  fine.

I usually allow myself a fantasy goal - like the best possible, best day ever, most I could ever hope to do.  Here at Felasco, my fantasy goal was to do 9 laps in the 8 hours.  

I was fairly confident of 8.  

I ended up with 7. 

That said, except for the slam-dunk and cramp-in-the-calf, I had fun with it, went my own pace, and generally just enjoyed riding the very best (and shadiest) parts of San Felasco on the last day of summer.

So what's the story?  Why not 9 laps?  Or 8, for that matter?  What happened?

This is the part where experience comes in.  Experience and maturity.  Experience, I have.  Some, anyway.  But maturity?  The ability to apply that experience when you need it?

Oh well. 


A ride in the park...

At 8:45 we gather for the riders meeting.  The GoneRiding folks explain the particulars of a Le Mans start, talk about the course, and go over the guidelines for the change out of relay riders.  

As a solo rider, the relay exchange does not concern me.  My only obligation is to dismount and see that I walk through the finish chute for timing, once per lap.  

Neither am I much concerned with the Le Mans start.  I plan to seed myself toward the back, and trot along the grassy track to my bike, well behind any riders with that intemperate look in their eye.  It is inconsiderate to impede others.  It is also undesirable to start out the day with a trampling injury.

Of more concern is the announcement that the course has been shortened by a mile and a quarter.  From a nice even 10 miles to approximately 8.75.  This will eliminate a stretch of open sun, keeping the course almost entirely in shade, a very welcome announcement for a blue-sky, super-bright Florida day. 

The extra shade is welcome.  The extra challenge to my math impaired brain is not.  Suddenly, it will require some mental effort to keep track of where I am on the loop at any given time, when to stop, and know how many loops I have to go.  A mere glance at the bike computer won't cut it. 

My brain isn't given to multitasking.  Keeping track of roots and rocks seems enough of a challenge without the mental gyrations of doing math in my head as well. 

7 loops will no longer be 70 miles.  7 loops will now be 62, and I will have to do 8 laps to get to my goal of 70.  I will need to adjust the stops a bit.  I have premeasured my drink powders and food concoctions for every twenty miles.  Now I will have to choose.  Stop every 17?  26?  It is going to have to be one of those decisions made on the fly.        

It is too much to think about, and at any rate, we're starting... NOW!

Off I trot, mind temporarily cleared of its math boggle by the spectacle of 101 bottlenecked riders trying to jam one at a time onto the shady single track trail.

The fifty ounces of Perpetuum and one bottle of ice water (for the occasional mouth rinse) works just fine.  At loop two, it's an easy decision to keep going for a third without a stop.  

At the end of loop 3, all business, I scoop ice from the cooler into the Camelbak.  Then eye my choices of premeasured drink powders lined up in their baggies on my lawn chair.  The taste of sour milk is still on my tongue.  In a moment of self indulgence, I grab the much tastier lime green Gatorade, dump it in, and go. 

Don't get me wrong.  The wild and fruity flavors of Gatorade are absolutely perfect for an hour or three.  But for hours four, five, and six, pushing through seven, and up to eight?  Nope.  Not enough of the right stuff for the long haul.  And I can't say I didn't know better.  I've made this choice before.

So there you go.  Loop 5.  A downhill stretch of meadow grass.  The fastest part of the course.  And I am at a dead stop, kneading a cramp out of my calf.  

The mature side of my brain, absent at the last pit stop, kicks back in to make a better plan for the next one.

One cramp, even a big one, is not a big deal.  It is fixable - if you have your cooler handy and a few extra minutes. 

I would have to stop a lap earlier than planned, sit down, make myself eat a sushi rice bar or two, maybe drink a V-8.  The salt, vinegar, and soy would take care of the seizing calf muscles. 

What it wouldn't fix was the time loss of an extra stop.  To make 8 laps before the cut off time now would be optimistic.  Very, very optimistic.  But you never know until you try, right?

Running the chronometer on my Timex, and distance on the bike computer, my increasingly feeble brain didn't have it figured down to the minute.  But I was pretty sure coming in, that this loop, number 7, would be my last.  Physically, I am good for another, but I am going to be out of time to do it. 

Sure enough, in the chute stands a staffer, giving out the count down.  "43 minutes left" he says as I cross under the arch.  I need 55, at least.  Realistically, more like 60 or 65, at this late stage of the day. 

I exit the course.  7 loops.  7 hours, 17 minutes.  Actual ride time on my computer shows 6 hours and 45 minutes.  My three stops have amounted to almost a half hour.  

The best I can hope is that maybe a few of the other solo women succumbed to heat or fatigue, and quit early.  I do remember passing two.  One seemed to be having trouble with the roots.  The other was off and walking her bike, cheerfully singing out the tune of the William Tell Overture to the riders flying by.  "On your left, on your left, on your left, left, left!"  Her bike looked fine, and she said she was OK when I asked, so chalk it up to simple boredom, maybe.  

But then, passing is all but meaningless on a looped 8 hour ride.  Solo riders stop at will.  For rest, or refreshments, or a trip to the porta john. 

I never saw Popeye once all day, only evidence of dwindling ice levels in the cooler, and empty sandwich size Ziplocs back under our canopy.  He usually outrides my mileage by 30-40 percent, so I knew he was out there, just unseen by me.

Two minutes later, at countdown minute 41, he comes in with 9 laps.  He is a little disappointed.  9 is OK, but he was going for 10. 

I know how he feels.

Back at camp, lawn chairs creaking, we pop our recovery Cokes and compare notes.  

Endurance success or failure often comes down to hydration and nutrition.  Except for a broken bike, nothing will put a dent in your day faster than screwing up your nourishment.   

I screwed up by changing drinks, which caused the cramping, which caused extra time stopped, which led to missing the cutoff time.   I knew it when I did it, and I chose the Gatorade anyway.  Just because I like the taste better.

Popeye's screw up, we decided, was accidental.  Getting the drink powder mix too strong, resulting in a bad stomach, will slow anyone down.  Although his loops were much faster than mine, he knew he couldn't squeeze in a final 8.75 miles in under 41 minutes, so he was one loop short of goal as well.

We take our cokes and amble up to the GoneRiding trailer to check the posted lists.  Ignoring the relay teams, I search for the women's solo category and do not find one. 

Popeye is 11th on the solo list.  Then I see my own name on the same list.  I am 26th out of 53.  All the solo categories are listed together.  Open money, amateur men, females, and single speed.  More math.  Popeye concludes he is in 5th place.  But my brain is done.  I will have to figure it out at home.

We go on back to the car to pack up.  Popeye grabs a towel and begins to scrub.  I pour a jug of water over my head.  "Next year, I'm gonna..." we each start to say, simultaneously. 

I laugh.  Because of course there will be a next year.   This is mountain biking.  Nearly every moment is over-the-top good.  Even if you aren't.

 

Clean start.

 

 

Dirty ending.

 

 

 

Prepping for 8 Hours of Labor, 2013. Grazing with a purpose. Or, why I love looped races.

 

 

 

 

8 Hours of Labor, 2010

 

 

A little more than 24 hours until the 8 Hour.  This one has been on my list all year.  For the last couple years, in fact.  And hooray!  We are finally going to get to go again.

 

It's Friday, a designated rest day.  Too busy to ride anyway.  Food prep is underway.  Fruit/protein bars all made.  Sushi rice bars cooling, waiting to be cut. 

 

 

 OK, I confess.  I used chocolate cheerios in the protein bars.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

After tasting...

...definitely a good idea! 

 

  

Ready to wrap. 

 

 

Tomorrow, I'll pack Perpetuum and Gatorade, portioned into zip loc bags.  A bottle of Endurolyte capsules.  Lots of water for mixing, a few cokes for later in the day.  Protein balls, rice bars, V-8.  A jar of big, green olives.  (Oh yes, and at Popeye's request, an emergency supply of peanut butter and jelly.)

 

A nice balance of sugar and salt, protein and carbs.  That ought to see us through. 

 

The cooler, the canopy, and a couple of lawn chairs, we'll be all set.

 

Sounds more like a picnic than a race so far, doesn't it?  Well, in some ways that's exactly what it is.  Grazing with a purpose.  (Or grazing with an excuse, however you want to look at it.)

 

I love the 8 hour!    

 

The venue is San Felasco.  Easy, shady, singletrack.     

 

The race is 8 hours.  9-5.  No getting up before dawn.  No lights to recharge.  No lights required at all!  Setting up, riding, taking down - all in daylight.   Like a vacation, right?

 

You get to bring a cooler.  And a lawn chair.  The course is a ten mile loop, with a start/finish chute in an open field.  Park alongside the loop.  Set up your canopy.  Stop in for drinks and food (or a sit in your chair) every ten miles, as needed.

 

You can go solo or grab some teammates.  See how many loops you can do before 5 o'clock.  How simple is that?

 

OK, so we should probably check the Stan's and lube the bikes too, but I will tell you why I pay so much attention to the food.  

 

I'm just not that fit.  And, much as I love it, I am just not that good on a mountain bike.  There aren't many people whom I can outride.  But sometimes, if I play it just right, I can outlast 'em.  Well, some of 'em anyway.

 

In order to ride for 8 hours, fitness is a good thing.  But with loops, it's not actually that essential.  You can alternate loops with a teammate, or if you're solo, simply quit and sit down when you've had enough.  You're never more than ten miles from home base.

 

A huge part of endurance is to keep the food and fluids coming.  Pacing yourself on the bike might be obvious, but pacing yourself with what you ingest is just as important.  If you screw up hydration or nutrition, you are screwed no matter how fit you are.  Much more screwed than if you simply get tired and have to take the pace down a notch.

 

That said, I haven't been on the mountain bike this year for anything longer than the last Tour de Felasco.   So we'll see how my theory holds up.  I know I am as likely to forget to refill a camelback as I am to remember, so I figure I'd have a fifty/fifty shot at hanging in for 8 hours, even if I were sufficiently trained.

 

But so what?  San Felasco is a great trail to ride for a day.  There are deer and trees, trolls and hills, and sights to see pretty much anywhere you look.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

The guy in the polka dots for instance, who was set up next to us in 2010.  Yes, he made the outfit himself.  And yes, it was hard not to notice as he passed me at least three times at that race.  Not only was he the overall winner that day, he was obviously way good at sewing too.  Always something to strive for, right?

  

Something else to strive for at the end of the day. 

 

All dirt.  No blood.     

 

 Popeye's finishing look.

 

 

  

And no bonking. 

 

Wish us luck.  

8 Hours of Labor. Sept. 1, 2013  http://www.goneriding.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=693&Itemid=349

Recipe for Sushi Rice Bars

http://bikeeatsleeprepeat.blogspot.com/search/label/sushi%20rice%20bars

 

Recipe for Fruit/Protein Balls.  Use the second recipe in this post, not the first.  Scroll down to Distance Bites.  (Which is so true, especially if you don't eat right.)  http://bikeeatsleeprepeat.blogspot.com/search/label/Biking%20Bites

 

 

 

Super simple Wednesday lunch. Sockeye Salmon Burgers.

Am I the only one who is sad that most people seem to have gotten over publishing Facebook pictures of every meal they eat? 

But once in a while my true friends will make a point to tell me what they made for dinner. 

(Because they know that I am always interested in what's for dinner.)

Two separate emails yesterday, from two separate friends, mentioning two fantastic dinners.  One lobster, and the other steak!  Not too shabby for a Tuesday.  (OK, to be fair, they each had bona fide occasions to celebrate.)

Just the same, I was feeling a little sorry for us regular, non-celebrating folk on a regular, time-crunched, post-ride Tuesday night.  Even though we had a pretty awesome dinner ourselves.  Pan fried salmon, with mustard, lemon, and dill.

Confession time.  I am not a salmon fan, especially not farm-raised.  (And certainly not any salmon labeled so enticingly as "color enhanced through feed".) 

But, for a few weeks a year, Publix gets in fresh Sockeye Salmon from Alaska.  If you are going to eat salmon in Florida, July is the time to do it.

On Tuesdays, we usually get home sometime after 8pm.  Dinner by 9 is the norm.  And even the ever-hungry Popeye has a minimal appetite right after a super-hard, super-sweaty, summer Tuesday night ride.  Often half of any big dinner goes straight onto the Tupperware for another day.  Which is fine with me - because that ends up as easy lunch prep for me on Wednesday.  

 

 

 

Wednesday Lunch

Super Simple Sockeye Salmon Burgers

1 fillet (approximately 6-8 oz.) chilled, cooked salmon
1 egg
2 T. finely chopped onion
1 T. deli mustard
1 hard squeeze of lemon (about a tablespoon of lemon juice)
salt, pepper, dill  -  to taste
2 T. Italian style panko
1 T. grated Parmesan
1 -2 T. Mayo (optional)
light-tasting olive oil for frying

Makes 2-3 medium burgers.

Flake the cooked salmon into a bowl.  Add everything but the mayo and mix well. 

Mash the salmon up as much or as little as you like.  I like to leave it a little lumpy, kind of the same way I like crab cakes.  But if you like a finer texture (or maybe you just had a bad day), then by all means, mash away.

Here's where the mayo comes in.  I experimented with it both ways: stirring mayo into the mixture, and also leaving it out for a few less calories. 

I liked the salmon burger without the mayo a little better.  But  then, I like meaty-chunky-crispy.  If you like a smoother, more paste-like texture, add the mayo, and mash it fine before pan-frying.

Form the mixture into 2-3 burgers.  Fry lightly in a skillet with a bit of light olive oil, 2-4 minutes on a side. 

 

2 small burgers without mayo, at top.

One larger burger with mayo added, at bottom. 

Hard to tell any difference until you taste them.

 

 

Because all the ingredients are already cooked except the egg, which cooks fast, you really don't need to cook it long.   I like mine dark-brown/crispy, so tend to let it go a little longer than strictly necessary to cook it through.

That's it.  Make a drizzle of equal parts hummus and lemon juice and serve it with a handful of last night's leftover salad. 
 

Two half-burgers for my taste test.

And yes, I went back for seconds.

 

Best Wednesday lunch all week. 

No color enhancement necessary.

Slow Cooker Grilled Ribs. (Ribs according to Kurt)

One of the regulars (OK, the only regular at that point) from the Beer Can Scramble mentioned cooking ribs over the Memorial Day weekend.

Oooo.  Ribs. 

I am impressed.   

I have never once attempted ribs. 

Mainly because every recipe I have ever seen for them starts with about two hours of oven time.  I love my new kitchen, but I am way too distractable to have something going on there for two whole hours.  (Especially something that contributes heat to the house in the summertime.)

Then he REALLY got my attention. "Oh, it's easy in the slow cooker." 

Slow cooker!  For ribs?  Why didn't I think of that?

Where have these been all my life?

We still had 17 miles of street riding to get home from the trail.  In the time it took for Popeye to make a last quick trip into the bushes, Kurt told me the entire recipe, standing over our bikes at the trailhead.

And wouldn't you know?   Publix had a sale on ribs the very next day.   While I still remembered the whole recipe!  (Well almost the whole recipe.) 

It was my kind of recipe, after all.

 

Slow Cooker Grilled Ribs.

Ribs (in this case, pork spareribs, but use any ribs you like)

Rub  (whatever kind you like)

Vinegar

Brown Sugar

BBQ sauce (whatever kind you like)


Cut the ribs into whatever portion sizes you like. 

Put on any rub that you like.  

(I totally forgot this step and had to fish them out of the pot and find something to use for rub, since I didn't have any store bought rub around.  I ended up using salt and pepper and a bit of chili powder.  Which was ok for me, but next time I will try to concoct something spicier for Popeye.)

OK, ribs all rubbed, THEN put them in the pot. 

Add a couple of glugs of vinegar, I think he said, and a couple spoonfuls of brown sugar. 

Glugs of vinegar, sure.  No problem. 

"Spoonfuls?" I ask, in a quick email to Kurt.  "Like tablespoons?" 

The answer comes back immediately.  It wasn't spoonfuls, it was "blobs". 

Oh yeah, that's right.  Blobs.

3 blobs of brown sugar

Quoting Kurt: "In this case a blob is the precise amount you get when you pull out a cereal spoon from the drawer and heap it full".

Rub, vinegar, sugar.  Nothing else?  No water or anything?

Nope, that's all you need. 

The complicated part was that Kurt has a programmable slow cooker and I don't.  So the two hours low, two hours high, and two hours low again was sort of lost on me.  I totally forgot to come back and reset the cooker.  The ribs, abandoned, stayed on low all day. 

So.  9 hours on low.  (Hmmm, looking pretty good in there...)

Then!  Take em out.  Throw 'em on the grill for a few minutes per side, plastered with your favorite BBQ sauce.

Time to e...  nom nom nom nom...

OMG.  Definitely my kind of recipe.