Sunday, T minus nothing. I’ve been waiting for this day for weeks, and here we finally are: White Trash Day.
We're in Queens at my sister’s apartment. The day is young, today's feast is on the coffee table in front of us, and we're all buried under blankets on the couch. I’ve got the stuff of legend in my hands – a Kool-Aid pickle – and comfortably sandwiched between Jose and Yaz, I size up my quarry.
John T. Edge puts it bluntly in his New York Times article: the Koolickle is "either the worst thing to happen to pickles...or a brave new taste sensation to be celebrated."
In the noonday sun, the Koolickle is an electrifying presence: wrinkled and warty, glowing, purple, phosphorescent. It exudes unwholesomeness – my face reflects its self-generated light.
Is this thing for real? Should I take a bite? Can I really do this?
What a day, what a day. And you know, I was thrilled when my sister raised the possibility of an all trash food fest. After all, no one enjoys a good gas station hot dog more than me. But when it came to authentic white trash cuisine, we were stumped. Sunday Fun Day rules stipulate that we have to cook – no twinkies, no lil' debbie snack cakes, no cheez whiz, no processed meat product.
Deliberation over the menu was intense. I argued the merits of such ill-conceived entrees as tempura-fried spam sushi rolls and government cheese fondue. No and no.
Eventually we turned to our trusty friend, the internet, for guidance, and turned up this culinary abortion: Sluicey Dab in a Foot Tub? Seriously? (If you click on the link, you'll need to scroll down to see the recipe.)
I tell you, Sluicey Dab was tempting, but ultimately we came to the somewhat misguided (I think) conclusion that white trash cooks are collectively trapped in some kind of 1950's purgatory. Whatever. Cheese in a can is, like, so futuristic.
The menu we settled on is true class (or should I say working class?) on display, a classic slice of mid-West Americana: sloppy joes, cole slaw, seven layer dip, cheese doodles, onion dip, deviled eggs, pig-in-a-blanket and potato skins.
But I just need to ask something: Is it really white trash to make your own mini brioche hamburger buns? Did the Dukes of Hazzard really eat organic cheese doodles? And why is seven layer dip always that terrifying green color?
Whatever. The koolickles overwhelmingly saved the day with their salty sweet funk, casting a pall of authenticity on our otherwise wannabe table. It's time to take a bite.
God, that's disgusting.
Here follows a more delicious account of a meal well enjoyed:
