Close, But No Cigar
I have always had a love-hate relationship with cigars.
I had an asthma attack when I was a kid–too young to even remember it happening. I was “fortunate” enough that it turned out to be an isolated incident, but I lived with the fear of triggering another that would persist for years. For all I know, my “asthma” was a ruse made up by my parents to keep me from doing anything cool. Looking at my popularity (or lack thereof) as evidence, it worked. I avoided smoking, or even being around any kind of smoke until after my senior year of high school. My risk-averse mentality extended beyond smoking, and I refused to engage in any generally accepted high school shenanigans as a result. This contributed to a social status that was somewhere between dirt and worm. In retrospect, being uncool was a reasonable price to pay to avoid destroying my young brain with unnecessary chemicals. Thanks Mom, I guess.
On my graduation trip to Miami, my buddy convinced me that smoking cigars was relatively safe, despite my propensity for lung-related issues, as I wouldn’t actually be inhaling the smoke. He was an idiot. The technique, as I best understood it, was not to inhale with the lungs, but to use the muscles in the mouth to draw the smoke in. The closest comparison would be the way you drink liquids through a straw, before swallowing. Ideally, smoke would stay out of the lungs using this method, and there wouldn’t be any issues. However, as a rookie, I didn’t have a firm grasp on the technique, and on my first try, a good amount went deep into my lungs. I coughed and hacked like an emphysema patient on their deathbed. After inhaling the smoke, I was full of nicotine, and the coughing fit sent blood rushing to my head. All of a sudden, I had a stomach ache, the spins, and I needed to take a dump. Luckily, I was outside with access to fresh air, and was able to move around which kept me from getting sick. I also located a public restroom, which was disgusting, but what I needed to avoid embarrassment. Everything ended up ok, but from then on, I made it a rule to only enjoy cigars outside.
During my freshman year of college, I began engaging in the age-old art of cigar appreciation a couple times per semester. Since I never had any issues, I believed more deeply that my parents were lying about the “asthma attack.” I enjoyed the cigars, but the lingering acridity was a put-off. It took a repeated cycle of brushing, flossing, and mouthwash just to be able to taste food again. Sure, the cigar itself was great, but the mouth maintenance required, and the complaints from my girlfriend were enough to put a damper on the fun. As a college student, there was plenty of fun to be had without doing a bunch of extra work. Due to the infrequency of my indulgence, I never quite perfected the technique, or got used to having the nicotine in my bloodstream. Oh yeah, I wasn’t an addict. I guess that’s good news. And the smoke never really bothered me as long as I stuck to the “outdoors only” rule.
By my senior year of college, I had a bit more experience, which I mistakenly let go to my head. A little misguided confidence can lead to suffering. One weekend, my college housemates and I asked our favorite advisor, Chaplain Tim Jones, to hang out. He suggested we go to a cigar store, offering a wealth of knowledge on his favorite vice. Chaplains in the south are the coolest. We drove down and met Tim at the redneck multiplex that was both humidor and cigar lounge. I was immediately nervous. This place was basically the Costco of tobacco products, and I felt like I was buzzing from merely looking at all the products. Tim helped me pick out a mild cigar that he thought I could handle as a novice, which put me at ease for the time being. His bunny slope turned out to be my black diamond. We paid for our cancer sticks, and stepped into the hermetically-sealed lounge.
I thought that a room dedicated to smoking would offer air purification, or at least some kind of ventilation. They may have had some hidden system in place, but none that I could identify. A thick haze of smoke clouded the entire room, as the simultaneously sharp and mellow smell of tobacco stung at my nostrils. I felt like a kielbasa in a curing room. I knew immediately that I wouldn’t survive an hour, maybe not even twenty minutes. If the Jigsaw killer wanted to torture me, this would be the place to do it. Despite my apprehension, the four of us sat down away from the other human smokestacks, and began creating a smog-like atmosphere of our own.
After about fifteen minutes of smoke and conversation, I was sweating. Not just a little mist, but full-on, nervous-breakdown-level buckets. The room was smelly, stuffy, smoky, and HOT. It was basically the perfect storm, and I was not interested in going down with the ship like George Clooney. I set down my barely-used cigar, and excused myself to the bathroom to see if I could recenter. I tried channeling my inner Buddha, but I was buzzing so hard it felt more like “nicotine drunk.” I was all over the place, walking too quickly, and my feet pounded the ground with enough force that I started fearing shin splints. Patrons of the store gave me odd looks as I darted through the aisles like a meth addict. I made it to the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and stood behind it like I’d just survived an encounter with Freddie or Jason. Maybe even both.
I sat down on the toilet with the hope that contact with the seat would cool me down faster. Yes, I was desperate. It was unbearably uncomfortable. I thought about texting my housemates to let them know I wasn’t feeling well, but decided against it, thinking this feeling would pass. I also didn’t want to look like I couldn’t hang. Ten, maybe twenty (what is time?) painful minutes later, I was feeling a little better and thought I might be coming down. I went back to the lounge, attempted to get my cigar lit again, and realized within seconds the improvement had been a figment of my imagination. I let the guys know I was done, and left the cigar lounge in search of fresh air.
I drunkenly stumbled out of the lounge, through the humidor, and into the larger warehouse store that encompassed the tobacco theme park I had escaped. I looked for the closest door and was disappointed to find that the sign above it said “Entrance Only.” There was no time: I wasn’t going to make it across the store to the door marked “Exit Only.” Luckily, there was a greeter standing at this door, and I asked him if I could have special permission to leave through this door. I was sweating, I was pale as a ghost, I looked like death was standing right behind me, but this man looked me up and down and said “No, you’ll have to leave through the exit.”
The hopelessness of the denial, and having to walk an additional eighty feet hit me all at once. With a sudden heave, every muscle in my body contracted and I lurched forward as I threw up violently. Multiple streams of stomach acid landed just one foot away from the greeter’s feet. Sweet relief! I took a couple seconds to gather myself, wipe whatever was around my mouth on my sleeve, and looked up at the greeter. He stared at me blankly as I said, “Sorry about that,” and turned toward the exit.
I still felt a little sick, but I was grinning inside. He didn’t help me in my time of need, so I didn’t make life easier on him. I really didn’t have a choice in the matter-- my body was ready to do whatever it wanted. Needed. I texted my housemates from a bench outside, letting them know I was waiting for them. I laid down on the bench and took deep long drags of fresh, smokeless air.
Twenty minutes later, they walked out unscathed, a testament to their Marlboro Man-level tolerances. Instead of saving face, I told them everything that had happened, including puking in front of the elderly greeter. The crew there must have cleaned it up already: my buddies were basically dying with laughter as they had no idea I was that intoxicated. They ribbed me for being a senior with the tolerance of a freshman, but were generous enough to get reservations at a local Mexican restaurant to help settle me down. After a few bites to eat, my body felt close enough to normal, and I felt completely fine by the end of the meal. I finally found my inner peace. At least, I think it was inner peace. I was just imagining returning to the scene of the crime with my overfilled stomach, and leaving another gift for the dear greeter.
Maybe he’d finally let me exit through the “wrong” door.
Anyways, here’s my recipe for kielbasa.
Kielbasa! This recipe will have you feeling as good as Ramsay Bolton after hanging out with Theon Greyjoy. It’s relatively healthy owing to the mounds of cabbage that accompany the smoky, salty treat that is polish sausage. Don’t get turned off by the cabbage: I usually hate the stuff, but this preparation works in a bunch of flavors that make it more than just palatable.
1 Lb Kielbasa
1 Yellow Onion
1 Medium White Cabbage
2 Tbsp Peanut Oil
½ tsp Red Pepper Flakes
½ tsp Salt
½ tsp Ground Black Pepper
½ tsp Ground Mustard
1 Tbsp Whole Grain Mustard
1 Tbsp Apple Cider Vinegar
Equipment:
You need something big enough to hold all of this stuff at the same time. A large saucepan, saute pan, saucier, skillet, or dutch oven will work. Part of the success of this recipe is how the flavors develop when all the ingredients play together. It’s like how sports are more exciting when teams play against each other, and it isn’t just one team on the field the whole time. That’s basically baseball. BORING!
Dutch Oven/Large Pan
Wooden Spoon
Chef’s Knife
Cutting Board
Active prep total: 30 minutes
Clean up: 8 minutes
You may think by only having a couple main ingredients, this is going to be a snoozer of a recipe. Well, you are in for a pleasant surprise. The cabbage and the kielbasa mesh together in a way that makes you wonder why we can’t achieve world peace. Ok, maybe it isn’t that revelatory, but it is a simple and delicious meal that should make anyone happy, unless you’re a vegetarian and are too busy being constantly depressed by the state of factory farming. Good for you and your moral standards, but you are missing out on flavor.
Instructions:
This step is so easy, you could do it in your sleep. Set your Dutch Oven/Large Pan on the stove at medium heat. Add in 2 Tbsp Peanut Oil to warm up. Easy peasy.
Now you have to wake up. While your pan is heating, cut your kielbasa into ½ inch thick pieces. Add your little army of meat discs to the pan. Listen to them sizzle! The goal is to brown these up on both sides. Leave them cooking on one side for about 3-4 minutes, then flip them to evenly roast both sides. It’s the same method as achieving the ideal beach tan.
Flay your onion like Ramsay Bolton would (take the outer skin off). Finely chop it into tiny little pieces, also like Ramsay Bolton. This dude was seriously born in the wrong era. He’d be a great Gordon Ramsay. Wait…
When the sausage is brown on both sides, add the onions to the party. This is also when you should add ½ tsp Red Pepper Flakes, ½ tsp Salt, ½ tsp Ground Black Pepper, and ½ tsp Ground Mustard. Mix it all around to get a good coverage of spices on everything. Pretty soon, you’ll be salivating like a hunting dog on a hog trail.
While your onion softens and adds its flavors to the sausage, it is time to chop up the cabbage. You’ll want to avoid using the heart, which is the thick white part that runs from the bottom up through the center. This can be removed out by cutting the cabbage in half, and then in half again. Simply cut away the heart attached to each quarter. Finally, chop each quarter into 1.5 inch strips, then rotate 90 degrees and cut at the same intervals again. These are the perfect bite size pieces for your dish. I know what you’re thinking: “They still taste like cabbage!” True. Dump this mass of rabbit food into the pan with your oils, spices, and aromatics. You are almost there.
After adding the cabbage, use your wooden spoon to stir everything up to get an even distribution. Continue stirring a couple times per minute for the next ten minutes. This will be enough time for the cabbage to become tender, and most importantly, absorb the flavors and smells so it doesn’t taste like cabbage anymore!
Pro tip! There may be some browning on the bottom of the pan, known as “fond” because it is full of the flavor you care about. Adding a couple tablespoons of water can help release it from the pan, and infuse it with the food. This will make it taste better. Duh.
When the cabbage is tender, remove the pan from heat, then add in the 1 Tbsp Whole Grain Mustard and 1 Tbsp Apple Cider Vinegar. Give everything one final stir before getting your bib ready.
Oh man. The combination of cabbage, spices, and sausage should be filling your kitchen and nose with smells that make you feel perfectly at home. This is the kind of food you want when you are overdosing on nicotine, but is much more enjoyable when you aren’t. The aroma, the flavor, and the soft crunch will distract you from your ideations of revenge. You won’t even think about returning to that cigar store to show the greeter what you are really capable of. You will be perfectly happy just to sit back, and enjoy the smoke-free environment of your home.
Unless you burned the food. That’s on you.
