smoked +hash +breakfast

October 14, 2007 at 1:46 pm (On the road again..., Sweet sticky things)

+Podnah’s.

I know, I know. You were expecting some Cheech & Chongish anecdote, right?

Well, today’s post does seem a bit drug-oriented…

Breakfast is now being served at Podnah’s Pit, home of the best barbecue in town. ThatGirl and I had to give it a try. She had ham and grits, and I had trout hash.

Granted, trout hash may not sound great. More like a desperate concoction made after one’s third day stuck in the woods. After reading an online review, I cast preconceived notions aside and gave it a go.

I can see ThatGirl’s eyes rolling a month from now, when I suggest we go again.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had trout for breakfast. Used to do it all the time. The first fish I caught was a trout. (In Northern Idaho, with a Popeil Pocket Fisherman. They laughed at me until I caught a fat nine-incher.) I had it with French Toast, as I recall.

Today’s catch was smoked, and I got about half a fish mixed in with the fried spuds, green onions and occasional hot pepper slices. Topped with a couple of eggs over-medium, and a honey-soaked biscuit. I feared too much salt would be used, but not so. (Thankfully, the folks at Podnah’s realize if you want your mouth burned with saltiness, that’s what that white shaker-thingy is for. It doesn’t come automatically. Yesss!)

After breakfast, ThatGirl and I had to cross the border to score some drugs.

We rolled into Vancouver, checked the parking lot for cops, and pulled into the Walgreen’s. She gave me half the money, she kept the rest. I hung back, watching for cameras, walkie-talkies. The coast was clear. We went in.

She scored first, passing necessary documents, saying the right things. I paid attention, in case anything went haywire. ThatGirl said, “I’ll take as much as I can get.”

I cringed, but our source smiled. “I can only give you one box. But if he’s with you, and has a valid ID…”

I plunked down my cash and driver’s license. $10 later, I am in possession of 10 24-hour pseudoephedrine tablets. We skedaddled before they could change their minds.

ThatGirl popped a pill, and washed it down with Arizona Mango Tea. (Tastes like mango lassi? More like mango Rin Tin Tin.) We took the Washington side of the highway back to Portland. Out of habit, I held the 24 oz. can low between my knees, and checked mirrors before passing it to her. I mean, the cops don’t know it’s ice tea, and we are carrying contraband cold medicine with the purpose of interstate transportation.

She dropped me at home. I handed over the pills, and she handed me a baggie with a whole bunch of little packets of white powder. Splenda! I can have guilt-free sweetened coffee.

I scored other goodies too. She bootlegged a couple of CDs for me, so I won’t have to drag my originals all over town. She gave me a USB drive. (Note to self- Google WTF a USB drive does…)

The cherry on top? A mini-tub of homemade apple-pear butter, made with a splash of Wild Turkey Rare Breed. More French toast in my future? I may have to have two breakfasts today.

And now I’m home, full of hash, in possession of a large amount of white powder, got my drinks lined up, and tunes to listen to.

Cheech and Chong got nothing on me these days…

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