Week 24: Orangina Eggs

Week 24: Orangina Eggs

The saga continues: The Fag Hag, The Country Boy, and Two Butt Pirates. We’re becoming a cute little family, the four of us, albeit dysfunctional, non-traditional and motley. Sean and John-Paul can’t have babies because um, they practice “docking” and Ryan and I are “out of wedlock,” so until wedding bells ring or Sean and John-Paul buy a black child, we’ll remain the motley crew.

I’m not complaining. After all, we’ve only been living in the woods for the past 24 hours “camping,” burying our poop like felines, and talking about bitches. John-Paul always tells bitches that they should eat their makeup so they can be pretty on the inside too. Clever. He never says that to me. Maybe it’s because I’m not even pretty on the outside, never mind working on the inside.

To be honest, I’m surprised Ryan has lasted this long. Not because we’re camping, he loves camping. But because of all of the people in his life to spend a weekend in the woods with, I am positive we weren’t in his top three drafts. Camping in May’s humidity has me cranky and I smell like a Steak n’ Shake parking lot. The sun is hot and my body is sore and scratched all over. I blame my soreness on the slowly deflating air mattress until Sean reminds me that I slipped off a wet log and ate shit while skinny dipping just 12 hours prior. Dammit.

All we have left for food and/or breakfast is a few hotdogs from the night before, english muffins, eggs and oranges. No booze and no water. Again, dammit.  No need to fear though, I have staged an amazing survival method that is sure to impress everyone. We immediately, under my command, start cutting the oranges in half and scooping the orange out, leaving us with two bowl-like orange halves. We fill the halves with scrambled eggs and put them in the fire pit. Easycampingmeals.com says this works and I’m excited to act like I invented it. Well, minutes and then tens of minutes go by.

Eventually Sean and Ryan pull their egg bowls from the pit out of frustration. Everyone’s eggs look like baby throw up and even worse, taste like oranges. John-Paul and I leave ours untouched and in the heat for several minutes longer, thinking that we are going to be the ones to win this culinary challenge. John-Paul’s turns out “perfect,” but I need a few more minutes. No one wants to eat the english muffins because they are unbearable without water and we are parched.

Upon complaining about something, probably my retarded egg-bowl idea, Sean dumps his mouthwash into the fire pit, covering my egg-orange creation. “Don’t worry Sean, I wasn’t going to eat that or anything…”

So, here we are. More than a mile hike from civilization, thirsty and starving. Worst Meatball Chronicle ever. Wait. Ryan has an idea. Everyone gather your bags, pack up camp, there is a Lupton’s Fat Man’s Barbeque Buffet just miles away. One we have never been to before. But you know how we feel about Lupton’s…..

It is at this point I’d like to give Ryan the opportunity to document our real Meatball Chronicle, and possibly shit all over my failed attempt at one. I think it’s important we gain an additional perspective on the weekend, and hell, we’ve never done it before. Ehhh—hemmm: Is this mic on? I give you, the formerly silent partner in crime, Ryan:

Did you know that being a perfectionist is more of a tragic flaw than it is a quality of character?  Projects take twice as long as they should.  Events are planned down to the minute. And Meatball Chronicles are considered weeks in advance.  Let me take a moment to clarify a few items before we dive into this pseudo-camping experience.

1.     I’ve been looking for an excuse to visit the trailer park and buffet mecca of Florida otherwise known as Zephyrhills for quite some time, so contrary to what anyone may have assumed, I had planned on visiting Lupton’s or one of Zephyrhills other gluttonous culinary establishments since the day I made the reservation at Hillsborough River State Park.  In fact, whether it was conscious planning or subconscious wisdom, it’s very possible that I selected Hillsborough River State Park for this Memorial Weekend Excursion for no other reason than its close proximity to the buffet promised land.

2.      My anxiety has nothing to do with my company and much more to do with the fact that this is the first camping trip we’ve embarked upon where planning responsibilities were shared and I lacked total control of the event.

Did you know that perfectionist is actually just a polite way call someone anal?  Speaking of anal, my planning responsibilities were shared with the aforementioned butt pirates, whose enthusiasm for the weekend in the woods was downright frightening.  Between John-Paul’s aspirations for eating mushrooms (and I don’t mean the delicious truffle variety) and Sean’s over indulgence in camping supplies; I was worried that the trip had the ability to transform from a camping adventure to an Adventure in Babysitting.

Contrary to my anal premonitions, we survived the night scathed only by a quarter xanax, a near missing person’s report, some thieving armadillos and a fun idea – turned inedible campfire breakfast.

Oh perfect segue, I made it back to breakfast.  Lesson learned: don’t cook eggs in a hollowed out orange.  Having lived in FL for over four years now, I’ve learned how to enjoy running, take the beach for granted, embrace the bandwagon fan, and use the zest of citrus fruits in many sauces, marinades and glazes.  Citrus oil has a more potent flavor than any juice or pulp so while I was fully aware of how Michelle’s little culinary experiment would turn out, I kept my mouth shut while encouraging ingenuity and applauding her brave pallet.  Playing along with her orangina infused egg recipe during the planning stages of this MB Chronicle, I mistakenly took solace in the fact that we could fall back on toasted cinnamon raison and whole wheat English muffins stuffed with campfire grilled, hickory smoked, thick sliced bacon.

Like a Missouri tornado spiraling out of control; there were several distinct choices that brought us to the current predicament.

1.      Butt Pirates responsible for water bring a case of 12oz bottles which are perfect for mass storage so left several behind (insert sarcasm font).

2.      Blame it on drinking too much, too soon or on not bringing enough booze but campers concerned about their buzz and their quality of sleep shared a xanax.  ChaCha says it causes mud butt leading to dehydration so it must be true!  All I know is that I shat in the woods for the first time in my life and was prepared to drink water from the Hillsborough River.

3.      In our disorientation, we removed the food from its safe perch in the tree and stored it next to the tent inviting small forest creatures to make off with most of our breakfast supplies.

I never told anyone that all the plastic packages of food had been chewed through and that I collected English muffins, bacon, hotdogs, chocolate and garbage throughout a 50 yard radius of the campsite.  If the early bird gets the worm, I had all intentions of savoring this night crawler until just after everyone was finished eating!

For being a perfectionist, my plans are often foiled.  For anyone who knows me, you dang sure well know that I cooked the remaining bacon.  I toasted a few English muffins and we waited for the orangina eggs.  No water… therefore there was no interest in muffins or bacon.  I pout silently while I eat my own bacon and orangina stuffed English muffin.  Quite frankly, I don’t give a f*!k what tried to eat our food the night before or how thirsty I am because I grew up working on the family dairy farm where I ceremoniously scooped dead flies from my morning cup of coffee because they liked the sugar and I needed the caffeine.

Did I mention that we went to Lupton’s Barbecue Buffet!? Long story short: Zephyrhills version is not the same as the Temple Terrace version that many of you faithful followers have previously read about. The building spelled out the difference in bold print on the sign hanging where not to long before it hung the brown and yellow letters of Golden Corral. Temple Terrace is “Lupton’s Fatman’s Barbecue Buffet,” while Zephyrhills is “Lupton’s Barbecue Buffet.” While I could go on to tell you about the wet and dry ribs, the pathetic attempt at “Carolina BBQ,” (and my moral dilemma about not caring enough to provide the historical record of North vs. South Carolina BBQ and the regions of BBQ within NC and all the finite details that makes each so wonderful), the tasty crabby cakes, peach cobbler and engaging brunch conversations covering topics from cat placenta to Tim McGraw; it really just isn’t necessary. The original Fat Man’s reigns supreme.

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