Cousin Eddie's Chubby Moose Ribs

Cousin Eddie’s Chubby Moose Ribs

Eleven easy steps to down-home goodness.

    First off, if you are some kind of rib-snob and are expecting neat little rows like you would get at the Tony Roma’s, then you should just sit down and enjoy your ride on the lame-train.  The recipe here is down home-cooking for real people and it’s delicious, just ask my son Rocky.  You could pick up these ribs with your fingers but you would  look like a fool and might stain aunt Edna’s doilies.  Hasn’t she been through enough?

   Still listening?  Here it is:

1)  Hopefully you left all the flank meat and layers of fat on the ribs when you sawzalled them off of the moose.  If not, two words: Tony Roma’s.  They’re open till nine.  Ribs without fat is like wearing jeans without skivvies. It seems like a good idea at the time but it’s just wrong.  It’s no secret that for ribs to be good, they’ve got to be chubby.

  

2) The bottom of the crock pot is where the magic begins.  Set your Winston down and whisk the following together with gusto.  Keep in mind that a super-high whisk elbow is taking it too far. Settle down. This isn’t an audition to Heehaw.

(All measurements are approximate.  We lost all the measuring stuff when the mobile home burned last winter.  Luckily Vickys cupped hands is almost exactly one cup!)

- 1 Tbsp Granulated Garlic

-1 Tbsp Onion Powder

-1 Tbsp Sweet Mesquite Seasoning

-1 Tbsp Smoked Paprika

-1/4 cup Worcestershire Sauce

-4 Tbsp Sweet Baby Rays BBQ sauce.

-1 cool one. ( That’s beer to the layperson.)

-3 cups Bloody Mary Mix.  I know what you are thinking here;  Eddie, you're just rifling through the fridge reaching for anything to dump in this thing....you’re damn right!  Note to the galley: The last time I drank Bloody Marys was at Clark and Ellen’s two Easters ago and it wasn’t pretty but I still feel I won the fight and I’ll have you know that the restraining order was the wife’s idea. Damn that Audrey.  I could tell you more but the court won't allow it.      

3)  Next, nestle your chubby-ass ribs into the marinade.  I know it sounds like a come-on line at a hottub party but trust me on this one.  If it doesn’t cover all the meat then top it off with water or, even better-more beer.   

4) Turn the crock pot on.

5) Plug the crock pot in.

6)  Go away for a long time.  While your're passing the time try to do something productive.  Heck, after Catherine’s shift at the carnival workin the tilt-a-whirl she tends bar out at bingo night at the Elks and she’s eight months pregnant! She’s quite a woman that Catherine. We sure are proud of her.

7)   Much later, walk in your front door and be prepared for a full frontal assault on your sniffer.  And don’t worry it’s nothing bad like the time the Snots ate a whole barrel of cheese puffs from the Price Club and got the shits on the heater vent.  Oooh wee!

    Also, it’s a good idea to have a slimjim or three to take the edge off before coming home because you will probably want to start wolfing it down by the spoonful.  Don’t do it!  Your work here is not done.  Pop yourself a cool-one and re-focus.

8) Since you were gone for ten whole hours the bones are no longer as snug as they used to be.  Slide them out and discard them to make room for the veggies.  If this is a problem for you then once again ( let’s say it together.): Tony Roma’s.

9)  Fold in the following ingredients to complete the dish:

- 1 whole white onion-diced.

-1 huge carrot cut into your favorite shapes.  I went with little racecars.  If you are not in possession of a “huge carrot,” consider using two or three smaller ones ( I got that tip from the cooking channel on the cable T.V. ) It is a lesser-play for sure, but still much better than substituting with a beet or rutabaga or something else lame.

-7 baby portabella mushrooms sliced.  Why seven you ask? Six is not enough and eight is too many.  Any more questions?

-1/3 cup quinoa.  Rinse first because that’s what is says on the package.  Rice and/or pearl barley are great substitutes here but quinoa seems to be all-the-rage these days. Something about El Camino acids... count me in.  

10) Go away again. Clean out the Trans Am or something.

11)  Return, serve and eat... in that order.  

 Clark bought us this crockpot after the fire.

Culinary review from the fam:

Rocky: “It’s delicious.” This is his default answer to every meal that’s ever been placed before him unless the vegetables are presented in too-great of a number in which-case his comments lean more towards:  “I don’t like this.” (We are working on articulation.)

Vicky:  “Dad, I really like that the sauce blends in with the meat and the vegetables on top.  I really like that texture.  If you can do that again, I’ll be oppressed. Bravo.”

    “Oppression, that is an interesting word Vick, do you think that maybe you meant impressed?” I was reaching.

    “No, I’ll be oppressed Dad.”

    Okay.

Ruby Sue:   She was born without a tongue so she doesn’t say much,  but don’t you worry about her one bit, she whistles like a bird and eats like a horse.  She ate four bowls.

Catherine: “It’s good.”

Me:   As for the meal, Rocky was right;  it was delicious.

     That being said I couldn’t help but want for a stalk of celery and a shot of cheap vodka as the meal passed but the court won’t let me do that either.

Musings of a Middle-Class Mountain Man

     Musings of a Middle-Class Mountain Man

    From the mouth of the mighty Susitna River you can see the jagged white peaks that spill across the horizon in the Western sky.   Like the upturned blade of some primitive snaggle-toothed saw these mountains extend far to the North, out-of-sight where they eventually touch fingers with the much bigger sawblade of the Alaska Range.  The Tordrillo Mountains jut into the Cook Inlet skyline unabashed and can’t seem to shake the glorious snow shawl that drapes over them year-round.  Undoubtedly they are admired from afar by many, but not many admire them up-close.  None admire them more than me.

      “Hey mom is there another spatula?”  The window was open and from my spot on the deck, I could see her working away inside in the kitchen. She was busy with the potatoes, green-salad, and bread.  She had already graced the table with an assortment of veggies from her garden and some smoked salmon dip and I had seen the rhubarb crumble on the counter earlier.  I watched her pull open one of the drawers.

    “Yep, it’s right here.” We were about to pull-off another great salmon dinner at fish camp.  From flop to filet in minutes we know how good we have it and aren’t bashful to take full advantage.  We always eat good at fish camp.  My role as grill-man often finds me on the corner of the back deck.  Situated through trial-and-error on the North West corner of the cabin, the grill is sheltered from the prevailing South-Westerly blow.  It’s from here where my love for the Tordrillos has taken root.  I enjoy my time out-back and that is where I first spotted her.  She is quite lovely.

       Our vantage point on the flats at Ivan River is a splendid one that grants us unobstructed 360 degree vistas that include the austere sawteeth of the Tordrillos.  Ironically it also includes my favorite view of Anchorage from a comfortable 26 mile distance.  On the darker nights of the shoulder seasons, the lights of downtown sparkle from across the Inlet.  More impressively, on a late summer’s eve, when the midnight sun is blazin,  it’s the bright amber reflection twinkling back at us from the windows of the posh homes on the upper hillside that shine brightest.  Anchorage, like many other big cities loses appeal for me with each approaching mile.  But if left alone and kept at arms-reach can be quite lovely, almost quaint.

       Alas, it’s more often than not that my gaze is cast not towards Anchor-town but 180 degrees the other way.  Located 75 air miles Northwest of those twinkling Anchorage lights, and clear-as-a-bell on a bluebird day, are the Tordrillos proper.  

    

The Tordrillos are a contradiction of remote wilderness.

One would expect at least moderate recreational activity, and there is- somewhat with the heli-ski crowd, but it is seldom graced by climbing axe or boot.

  If the Tordrillos see less-than-fair visitation it might be related at-least somewhat to the severity of the getting-there part.   

     You could take a skiff-ride across the unpredictable and notoriously treacherous waters of Cook Inlet. A successful crossing would land you on the mud flats, close enough to embark upon quite-possibly the most arduous and epic 20 mile bush-whack of your life.   Arriving above treeline would never be as sweet.

     Conversely, I have heard rumors of mountaineers saddling Skandics and accessing the North side of the Tordrillos in the winter.  The almost two hundred mile ride that includes traversing the Skwentna River drainage through steep-walled canyons isn’t for sissies, beginners, or folk with limited time.  Hats off to those cowboys.    

       Single-engine planes outfitted with skis are capable of impressive glaciers landings, and since the 1950’s has opened up the world of  mountaineering in Alaska seven-fold.  Unfortunately, finding the right pilot that is comfortable, capable, and willing to touch down on a crevassed and unpacked landing strip can be a risky and possibly spendy proposition.  All-said, it seems that flying-in is the most practical.

     There is at least one other option that stands out in stark contrast to the others. Tordrillo Mountain Lodge, owned in part by Olympic gold medalist Tommy Moe, is a high-end outfit that caters to the Heli-ski crowd.  It is located in the foothills of the Tordrillos on the banks of Judd Lake and has taken the idea of niche-market to the next level.  Their “Cast and Carve” promotional has you fishing for King salmon in the morning on the clear, pristine waters of the Talachulitna River.  After a catered lunch on one of their three large cedar decks it’s time to round up your boards because the chopper is ready to go as-is the corn snow that has loosened up nicely and is ready to fall apart under the good graces of your sweet butter turns.   Go ahead and make that last run because your massage will be waiting for you upon your return along with all the compliments of a full wine and spirits bar.

   As appealing as this is to me, the wife seems quite adamant that we direct our earnings towards more mundane expenditures such as our mortgage, clothing for the kids,  and food staple items (milk, eggs, flour etc.) Nine thousand US dollars for five days of adventure seems like a good deal to me.

   Tongue-in-cheek aside,  it’s this difficult or cost-prohibitive access to the Tordrillos that make it perhaps the truest representation of untouched wilderness in Southcentral Alaska.    

    On the Southernmost forefront of the Tordrillos, and hard-to-miss from the porch, is its most famous and quite volatile mountain that has become a household name to Southcentral Alaskans.   The mountain is known aboriginally by the Dena'ina Athabascan name K'idazq'eni, and literally means 'that which is burning inside', but it’s more commonly known as Mt. Spurr.  Spurr and its Southerly neighbors Mts. Redoubt, Augustine, and Iliamna have all demonstrated equally hot tempers in recent geologic time blowing tops and spewing ash near-and-far in their staggered eruptions.

    But there is another.  Tucked North and due West of Spurr lies a mountain worthy of note.  The highest of them all, standing at 11,414 feet tall is Mount Torbert and it is the mother of all things Tordrillo.  The lovely matriarch Torbert is tucked innocently behind the lesser Spurr.  

     Sunset vantage points from Anchorage to Homer illuminate impressive profile shots of all four of the active volcanoes on the Western shores of Cook Inlet and it’s only a trained eye that would even notice the snowy capped summit of Torbert beyond.  Lady Torbert seems content to oversee  her subordinates with unassuming confidence. “Let them enjoy the lionshare of affection,” I imagine her saying.  “I am taller!”  It’s true Mount Torbert seems a bit lost-in-the-shuffle, a sidenote to most, but there are those who have taken notice.

    Lowell Thomas Jr.,  the 5th Lieutenant Governor of Alaska under Governor Jay Hammond, was a bush pilot too and apparently had a bit of  peak bagger in him.  He and his party that included Dr. George Wichman, Dr. Rod Wilson, John Gardey, and Paul Crews Sr. tagged out on the summit of Torbert in ‘64 after landing on the Triumvirate Glacier north of Torbert at 4000 ft.  Since that first-ascent there have been others, but not many.  

    It’s true, I have imagined walking the plateau leading to Torbert’s peak and I’ll admit that the chance to reverse the view back down to fish camp, along with the prospect of a bomber ski run down her slopes, leaves me a touch giddy.  To know Torbert’s secrets on her own terms would be a saucy little nugget indeed.

    I reach for the last lemon wedge to squeeze onto the fish and I see her from the corner post on the deck.  She tries to hide behind Spurr but I see her.  Maybe my long staring sessions have alerted her.  Maybe she suspects something.  Maybe she knows that I’m coming for her.  

  “Fish is done!” I announce as I make my way around the the windy corner to the front door.  The table is set, full to the brim with all the spoils of war and there is barely enough room for the entre d’ honneur.  Thoughts of mountains and expeditions quickly evaporate and are replaced by good food and conversations of fishing, river, and mud.