Happy Thanksgiving, good people of the Internet.
I’m thankful for all of you crazy peeps who show up here either sporadically or day in and day out. You make the Internet more than just a slap-dash buffet of disconnected information. You make the Internet about people, and hot diggity damn, that’s pretty fantastic.
I’m thankful for my beautiful and hilarious wife who is doing all the heavy lifting with, you know, this crazy baby that’s currently inside her womb, karate-punching invisible ghosts for the good of all mankind.
I’m thankful too for that little dude and or lady, because I know not everybody can be so lucky, and I know that it is going to change our lives in mind-exploding ways. Plus, I’m thankful for all the ghost-punching. I mean, really, if our baby isn’t punching ghosts (originally mistyped as “goats”), then who will take on such an onerous task? Only the unborn can protect this planet from the tide of angry specters.
I’m thankful I have a great family on both sides of the fence.
I’m thankful everybody is healthy.
I’m thankful that I’m a lucky slug all around — a happy home, a forest all around me, two dopey-ass dogs, and a career that is never easy but always satisfying.
And holy shit am I ever thankful for the food.
Once you get all that sweet gratitude out of your body, you’re left with a big empty spot, and that empty spot must be filled with delicious Thanksgiving victuals.
Last night, I did a “preparatory lap” with the food, y’know, just to get my body ready for the onslaught of gustatory delights. And that prep lap ended up as one of the best meals I’ve ever made.
It’s easy. Stupidly easy. But perfectly delicious.
One standing rib roast. Mine was 3 lbs.
Coat it in a spice rub, but be overgenerous with salt. Yes, salt. Too much salt. Pack salt over every square inch of the thing. I also mixed in there garlic powder, smoky paprika, and crack-black pepper.
When I say “too much salt,” I mean, like, a half-a-cup. At least.
Oven at 375. Stand it up on a rack in a pan, throw it in there for one hour. Never open the oven. When that hour is up, turn the oven off. Seriously: do not open that goddamn oven or I will bite all your fingers off. Leave it in there for two-and-a-half more hours. Seriously, even then? No touchy the hot-box, or I will twist your nipples off and roast them over an open flame. Crank the oven up to 375 again and let the roast sit in there for a good 30 more minutes. When it’s done, take it out, let it rest for ten minutes, then slice off the bottom bones so you can stand that sumbitch up, and carve straight down to get your prime rib cuts.
So juicy. So tender. Pink in the middle. Salt crust on the outside.
Had that, some whipped cauliflower, some sauteed kale, followed with a glass of Balvenie Doublewood.
I’m thinking, hey, turkey can suddenly go fuck itself because prime rib? Damn.
So, there you go. A quicky recipe. Not mine — it’s a Paula Deen technique, I think.
Meanwhile, I’ll ask you:
What’s your favorite Thanksgiving food? What awaits you at the dinner table and causes you to start expectorating rivulets of glistening drool some three, four hours early?
Share. (Double points if you offer recipes.)
Happy Turkey Day, tmeeps.