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Step 3: Results and repast
Warning to those of you following this recipe at home: The hour spent cooking will be the longest of your life. And not just because you're driving through Oregon farmland. The whole way, Jason and I wondered about how our precious shiny packages were doing. Were the locations we'd chosen hot enough? Would the food fall out? Would an errant bump send the fish careening into one of the belts and rip the engine to shreds? And if that did happen, how could we blame it all on Galen?
At one point, Charles (the driver of the other van) asked us to pass him so that, in the event of food-related carsplosion, he'd be able to stop and rescue us from the burning wreckage (Mr. Rempel wasn't entirely on board with Operation Cook on the Engine and Not Die of Salmonella 2000).
Finally, we got the sign we were waiting for: Rest area next exit. We pulled in, popped the hood, and piled around the engine compartment. It sure smelled like fish. In fact, I think I can say quite confidently that this was the most fish-smelling engine I'd ever had the pleasure of sniffing.
The moment of truth was here. Jason pried out the fish packet with our new pair of knives and dropped it onto the nearest picnic table. You could cut the tension with a knife. Unfortunately, you couldn't cut the foil as easily, so Jason had to face the heat and unfold it by hand. Finally, it was open, and we could look down on what heat hath wrought.
Jason looked around, picked up one of our ceremonial plastic forks, and scooped up a bit. The meat was flaking off the bone, and overall it looked pretty much like cooked fish should. Jason raised the bit of meat as a toast and took a bite.
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| Would you eat this?
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Jason takes the fateful first bite. |
Seeing as how he didn't immediately spit out the fish or slip into a coma, I grabbed a fork of my own and took a sample. Our recipe was a success! Sure, we probably should have added a little oil or butter to the mix, but overall it was damn tasty. Next, we turned to the sausage.
Unfortunately, the kielbasa was only lukewarm. Apparently the intake manifold doesn't generate the kind of heat needed for softened peppers, caramelized onions, and steaming hot sausage. So we repacked the meat (no jokes now) onto the exhaust manifold and hit the road for another hour and a half.
By the time we stopped for the kielbasa's second chance, it was after dark, so our photo ops were limited. We were at a rest stop in the wilds of northern Oregon, manned by two grizzled VFW volunteers passing out free coffee and s'mores. They were our silent witnesses as the Van Gogh-Goghs first experienced the transcendent joy of sausage-scented van engine.
We pried out the package and, picnic tables being scarce at this here rest area, opened it on top of the radiator. The scent was incredible — it reminded me of those vendors who used to sell sausage with peppers and onions from little carts near Fenway Park. Even more so, it reminded me of the sausages, peppers, and onions themselves! We pried open the package, each grabbed a fork, and dug in.
It was worth the wait. Even Charles said this was pretty good.
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The result? M'm M'm Good! ("M'm M'm Good" is a registered trademark of the Campbell's Soup Company. Just 'cause we're stealing doesn't make it right.) Sure, the onions and peppers could have taken a few more miles of heat, but overall the whole thing was damn tasty. We all gulped some down, then declared Operation Cook on the Engine and Not Die of Salmonella 2000 a success.
The question now is what the Van Gogh-Gogh cooking team will tackle next. I dunno about Jason, but I have my heart set on some of those one-step brownies in a pan. Or maybe some steaks with mushroom sauce. Maybe the next time I have to schlep up to Pasadena....
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