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reported by Alan Benson
Is there anything better than getting out of your rented minivan, stretching your tired legs, and sensing that the whole front end of your vehicle smells like well-cooked sausage? I hope not, because my recent experience with a kielbasa-scented van brought me as close to spontaneously combusting with happiness as I'd ever want to risk.
I reached this high plane of happiness in northern Oregon, midway through the Van Gogh-Goghs' great Northwest adventure. We had stopped at a rest station.... But I'm getting ahead of myself. Before I get to our meaty-smelling minivan, I need to bring you up to speed.
The Van Gogh-Goghs recently performed at a sketch comedy festival in Seattle. We made the northward trip over two days in two minivans, a Chevy SomethingOrOther and a Dodge Whatchamacallit. While we were all excited about seeing Seattle, Jason and I were almost more excited about the drive itself. A two-day trip up the coast means just one thing: a hot van engine. And where there's a hot van engine, there's the possibility of fine cuisine.
Yes folks, we were going to cook on an engine. And what's more, we were going to eat what we cooked. And hopefully not die.
Jason and I talked about the possibility of cooking on the engine for weeks before we actually left. Our minds were filled with car culinary possibilities: grilled trout, rack of lamb, hell, baked Alaska. Nothing was out of the question. In fact, we were so excited about the prospect of mixing edibles with driveables we made up a little song:
"Cookin' on the Engine"
© 2000 The Van Gogh-Goghs
(sung to the tune of pretty much any song you want)
We're cookin' on the engine,
Cookin', cookin'.
Cookin' on the engine,
Cookin', cookin', cookin'.
Cookin' some food,
On the engine, lawd lawd.
Cookin' on the engine,
Cookin' cookin' cookin',
Cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin'
cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin'
cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin'
cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin'
cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin'
cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin' cookin',
Cookin' on the engine, lawd lawd.
During the first day of the trip, Jason and I would repeat this song about every 20 miles, or whenever we were able to undo the surprisingly tough gags Charles improvised from Doritos bags and some rubber bands.
Finally, the time had come. We'd stopped in Eugene, Oregon, for lunch, and the time had come for Operation Cook on the Engine and Not Die of Salmonella 2000 to begin. First step: acquire the fixins.
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