Oh, arteries

Well, I've had a bit of bourbon, and Zelda is just all over me making a blog post tonight. It sure was a delicious measure of bourbon.


You sassy temptress, you. Let's get you out of that glass and into my liver.

I'm honestly pretty burnt out, what with the studying and the attempting to study and the failing to study effectively. 
I could talk to you about some delicious cheesecake that I made. (What, you thought that I didn't bake anymore? You sassy dickwaffles. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I was just a bit upset by you implying that I don't bake anymore. Can't you just believe me when I say things like this? I know that I haven't been blogging every day, but that's no reason for us to grow apart like this, and it's certainly no reason for you to say such hurtful things. I mean, people liked this. They said things like, "Rob. This is really good. ROB. THIS IS REALLY GOOD." You may mock, but it was delicious.)

Basically, this. Emma Stone, you sassy temptress, you. Let's get you out of that glass and into my liver. On second thought, let's not. That'd probably cause some pretty serious hemorrhage.

But no. We're going to talk about a different kind of deliciousness. This is the sort of deliciousness that vaguely resembles poop. But it's not. Because, see, it's deliciousness.

I am, of course, talking about cevapi.


NO. If there's not trouble, I have no use for River City.

"What is this so called "cevapi?'" you may ask.

It was April of 2011 (not "oh-eleven," because that makes no sense). I was on a whirlwind tour of the Balkans with my friend who we'll call Mateo for similarly convoluted reasons as I often use. Anyway, we're chilling out in Sarajevo.

Much as Franz Ferdinand of old. Nothing bad could happen, right?

So night is starting to fall (really, since it's April in the northern hemisphere, it's really more a light dusk), and we're starting to get hungry. We quickly realize that there is just nothing on the downstream side of town. I mean, maybe there's a McDonald's or something, but why would you do that? You're in THE FREAKING BALKANS, so WHY WOULD YOU GO EAT AT A MCDONALD'S?

Well, maybe because you don't know of any Balkan cuisine. Maybe you were just going there because, hey, it's someplace you wouldn't go to normally, and it seems like it'll be pretty cheap. Maybe you wren't thinking about what you'd eat out there. YOU JUST DIDN'T KNOW. YOU DIDN'T THINK THE FOOD IN BELGRADE WOULD BE SO BAD (except for that one place, which was pretty great, but I don't recall whether or not we're there yet. Maybe we were. It's a tough call, because it's been a while).

And then you're wandering around the historic Muslim quarter, and you find this little place. It looks like it could be a hollowed out Subway or some such. But it's got this stuff called cevapi, and you've heard decent things. Maybe you'll give it a shot.

Around this time, your arteries are weakly protesting, because, well. Look at this.

"GODDAMMIT, NOT AGAIN," said Rob's arteries.

That's beef/lamb sausage (because you can't have pork or some such). Sorry. That's not entirely accurate. Using a singular? Ha. You wish. There are, oh, 20ish in that picture.

Yeah. 20 sausages. In a pita. With sautéed onions. And that white stuff? They call it "kajmak." It's delicious. What's that? You want to know how to make it?

Well, here's a recipe I found earlier today for the very kajmak.

"INGREDIENTS:

1 quart milk
1 pint heavy cream

DIRECTIONS:

Boil the milk in shallow enamel pan. Carefully, pour the cream in holding it as high as possible. Simmer mixture on low fire for about 2 hrs.

Turn off heat. Let it stand without mixing for 6 hours. Then turn on heat again and simmer on very low fire for 1/2 hour. Cool without mixing.

Then carefully place pan in refrigerator for 24 hours. Cream has formed. Loosen with the point of a knife and remove it to a flat plate. Cut into squares. It is delicious served on anything which calls for whipped cream or eaten alone."

Paula Deen could not be reached for comment, as she was too busy ogling.

Ladies and gentlemen. Kajmak.

Somehow I survived eating that on two consecutive days. I can only imagine the damage I did to my arteries in doing so.

Oh, wait. I don't have to, thanks to the SCIENCE OF MEDICAL SCHOOL. Hurrah for studying.

I'm going to go ahead and make a bold statement. If you say that you don't like puppies, I will fight you. Maybe not to the death, and more than likely, I'll lose, but I'll get in a few weak, limp-wristed hits before I curl up in a fetal position and play dead until you go away.

Possibly with this exact face. I am not a fearsome fighter. OR IS THAT EXACTLY WHAT I WANT YOU TO THINK?

Somehow this topic managed to stick. I love dogs. Well, love might not seem to be the right word. I really do like dogs. I've been accused at several points of that not being the case, and I'ma defend myself on these two cases.

1.) Big Dogs that Strike Me As Crazy

Let's talk about Hawk.

Hawk was my grandfather's German shepherd. My grandfather was a pretty cool guy in a lot of ways, not the least of which was his perpetual collection of dogs, several of which had been German shepherds. His dogs were almost always pretty cool, and I got along fairly well with them. My family (really, my sister and my mom) had a beagle at home that was about as cute and as dumb as dogs get. Seriously. This dog was so adorable, but she just wasn't that bright. I'm sure there are great stories out there to elaborate on this point (like when she did a backflip off a tree while trying to chase a squirrel), but this isn't about how amazing my dog was.

Seriously, though. This dog was pretty great.

I met Hawk when I was about 10 years old. Ten years old, and probably about, oh, 90 pounds? I was a skinny kid, and this dog had teeth. This dog also had a hefty dose of something with which I am only moderately endowed- crazy. I have a rather vidi memory of one day in particular. See, I was going to go hang out with my grandfather for a bit, and I step out onto the stairway, and there's Hawk. He's looking at me. I take a step.

Hawk barks. Now, let me clarify. This (to me) was not a, "Hey, you're not usually here. What's going on?" Kind of bark. No. This was a, "What the fuck are you doing in my house? Take another step, and I will end you. I will end you, those you love, those who owe you money, and all those that they love. Go ahead. Take that fucking step, you motherfucker."

Author's interpretation

Needless to say, I did not take that step. There was apparently some fallout from this between my parents and my grandfather, but, to his credit, Hawk didn't do anything to physically hurt me. He did, however, proceed to prove his utter nutbonkerness by biting a friend of the family, and that shit don't fly.

So, with big dogs, I'm a bit wary to begin with, because they can still probably kick my ass and rip me to shreds. Besides, do you REALLY want to start rassling or roughhousing with an animal that's as big as you but with much larger jaws? That seems like a poor choice. Apparently, this comes off as me not liking dogs, though, so whatever.

2.) Small dogs

This really only applies to REALLY tiny dogs, and even then, similar bone structure can make it apply to larger dogs as well. The reasoning here is pretty simple.

I feel like I'm going to break them.

No, seriously. People try to hand me small dogs (or cats) and expect me to be able to carry them. "Oh, it's just like carrying a baby," they say.

Do I look like I have a baby? Do I look like I've ever held a baby? I'm the youngest one in my immediate family, and the gap between me and the next closest relative (i.e., the oldest one in the next generation) in my extended family is about 10 years younger than I. I have no instinctual bearing on how to hold a baby, and my attempts at using instinct to hold small animals has left them looking exceptionally uncomfortable.

Not shown: Rob trying to hold a cat. It is begging for some sort of release.

So, please. When I don't rush to play with your small animal, don't assume that I hate it. I just don't want to be its next meal, and I have no idea what to do with a baby. It's the way of the world, and you can deal with it for a bit.

Well that degraded quickly

Well, apparently I need to keep posting here in order to keep your respective interests. Who could have guessed?

You shut your British mouth.

Well, after a reasonably productive weekend off, I'm back on the radar, or the grid, or whatever we call it these days, AND BOY DO I HAVE TALES TO TELL.

Well, I'm sure I do somewhere. I... well, I spent a lot of the weekend in the library or thinking that I should be in the library.

Oh, wait. I forgot that I apparently am only capable of writing whilst in my pajamas. Since they're currently in the laundry, I'm afraid that I will have to give whatever NSA folks are monitoring my through my webcam (I just waved. Hi guys! How's the coffee?) a bit of a show. I apologize for the glare. You can't be as dazzling pale as I am without a bit of that going on.

Well, that was interesting. Wasn't that interesting, NSA folks? I'm sure it was.

Moving on.

No, we aren't going away just because Novemblog is done. I'm sure I'll do an all-out debriefing at some point, but that's a perfectly good post that I can save for later. Alas, my ADD is going crazy, and I've been rocking a headache most of the day.

Plus, you know, tests and such on testes and such. THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT.