Revised Blog 1: Family & Food

Food is the one thing all people have in common. True, it is necessary to our survival, but what is almost nearly as important is that everyone has certain memories attached to it. Meals are often times how my family connects. Throughout my life cooking has helped me to connect with family, meals have been the great conqueror of our many family problems (at least for a short while), and it sounds crazy but food has help to define the person I have become.

For example my grandmother is an excellent cook; she turns ordinary meals into exquisite but somehow still welcoming family gatherings. My grandmother also has the unique ability to cook something that my little brother actually enjoys; ever since he was little he has had a very selective palate; most people eventually grow out of this but he, somehow, has retained that trait. I guess that after having such delicious meals it’s hard to go back to the mundane cuisine of everyday life. What is even more amazing is that my Grandmother seemingly enjoys cooking for us more than actually eating the extraordinary food she makes. Talking over her dinners I have been able to connect with my family in a way that I never could have without food. I can picture it now; my family sitting around my grandmother’s table gazing at the remarkable entre she has created. I can taste it now, tender roast beef, mashed potatoes perfectly prepared, biscuits smothered in homemade fig preserves, green beans on the side, and to top it all off the most incredible dish ever created Brunswick Stew. This is the food worthy of gods.

Despite the undeniably good cooking of my grandmother, there is one thing that surpasses those scrumptious meals. Thanksgiving. In my family Thanksgiving is more than just a time to eat. Thanksgiving has the amazing ability to make every family member to set aside their differences, at least for a day, and share a delicious meal. It is truly amazing to see everyone working for the collective good of a family which has many differences. Aunts and uncles that would otherwise not talk take part in joyous conversations. The whole event seems rather peculiar to me. Every year I ask myself if this really could be possible, and every year I am completely baffled by the bizarre event. Are my family members simply putting on a front because they think it’s the proper thing to do, or is there something deeper to this anomalous event that is thanksgiving?

Thanksgiving also offers a chance for each member of the family to show off his/ her cooking skills. Everyone has their own special dish that they somehow perfect even further each year. We, however, have the most important and glamorous job, cooking the turkey. When I was a kid we roasted the glorious bird in the traditional method, but recently my Aunt Carol, who is from Columbia, introduced us to a new recipe native to South America. The process is quite time consuming but well worth the effort. Though I am no master of the process my-self, I have watched my dad prepare it and understand the basic principles. I know it involves mixing a variety of spices into a brandy and orange juice mixture. Once the concoction is more or less mixed the turkey is set into it for forty-eight hours so that the luscious meat can absorb all the sweet and tangy goodness. Once done marinating the turkey is placed in the oven where it roasts for several hours. After being cooked the turkey has a unique and wonderful flavor that everyone enjoys. The complements are endless and the satisfaction of cooking something great is always rewarding.

From my experiences with food I have learned that the best recipes are often not the ones from cook books or magazines, they are the ones passed down in the family for generations. For example my Great Aunt Hazel has kept alive the tradition of making sourdough bread and perfected the recipe. The bread has a subtle sweetness and is so tender it literally melts in your mouth, and because we only get the bread on rare occasions we savor each bite. However, just making the bread is an accomplishment because it requires a starter acquired from the previous batch, so the sourdough bread must be made continuously in order to keep the starter from spoiling. If it spoils, nearly a hundred years of effort will be wasted. Sure you could make another starter but it will not produce the same quality of bread because the starter is what gives the bread its unique flavor. Through her efforts I have really learned to appreciate all that goes into cooking even the most basic of foods, bread.

The process of making food has also helped to shape my identity. A few years ago I began to take a profound interest in cooking, but not in the way most people normally would. The majority of people who start learning to cook do so in order to survive away from home, to impress someone, or simply because they want to make great food. I however cooked to be creative as possible, the more outrageous the idea the more appealing it was to me. Most of the time my food concoctions were completely inedible, and they had to be thrown away immediately. After a while I began to realize that certain foods were just not meant to be combined and that while creativity is a good thing, moderation should be applied to all aspects of life. As my life slowly became more hectic I had less and less time to try more moderate methods of creativity in cooking, so I simply stopped. It is undeniable that I will have to cook sometime in the future, and every time I do I will remember one simple rule, everything in moderation.

From my encounters with food I discovered that it is unique and amazing. It is a common ground that allows for people to connect in a way I never have seen before. Through my experiences with this ordinary necessity I have bonded with family members, have seen it to mend relationships, and most importantly I have gained morals essential to a successful life.

Images Used

Photograph. (n.d.) From http://simplyrecipes.com/recipes/pot_roast/ (accessed September 3, 2009)

Photograph. (n.d.) From http://www.grit.com/uploadedImages/ GRT/blogs/Lacy/SourdoughBread.jpg(accessed September 3, 2009)

Photograph. (n.d.) From http://vanelsas.files.wordpress.com/2007/11/turkey-dinner.jpg(accessed September 3, 2009)

Photograph. (n.d.) From http://danielcarlyle.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/03-ps36-3moderation-posters.jpg(accessed September 3, 2009)

Revised Blogpost #1: Tasty New Tradition

In the Robinson family, it is never Thanksgiving without a sweet potato pie. When I was young, I would call my aunts days in advance to make sure they were going to bring one to the annual potluck celebration. This pie could not just be any one; it had to be carefully chosen. It must be gleaned from a grocery store shelf full of quotidian pies, which probably taste more like a simple conglomeration of ingredients than anything that should be served for one of the most important celebrations of the year.

Sweet potato pies are like men. A good one could take a while to find. Good pies usually do not look as appetizing as the bad ones, and that is the trick to finding them. Good sweet potato pies look rough around the edges. The crust is not nicely formed and round, but crumbling. The filling, the most important part, does not look perfect and smooth like the ones in the cookbooks. It is bumpy and rough, but full of sweet, holiday goodness.

Every year, I would hound my aunts about bringing the pies. The year when I was seventeen, however, something changed. On the eve of Thanksgiving, my parents told my sister and me that our extended family would not be having its annual Thanksgiving celebration. I was so upset at the adults in my family, who claimed they did not have money to contribute to such a large meal. They said they all wanted to celebrate separately, in their own homes, with their individual families. I was so incensed about my family members ruining a tradition I had known my entire life that I had forgotten, for a moment, about the pie.

Thanksgiving morning came and I was not happy about it because my favorite part of the holiday, eating the pie, seemed like a distant and unlikely thought. Neither of my parents had the time to take a trip to Publix to satisfy my longing for my favorite Thanksgiving dessert. I had nothing to look forward to that evening. My mother was attempting to make her first Thanksgiving turkey. My dad wanted to help out too, so he called his mom and convinced her to give him the recipe for her special collard greens. The vibrant, unmistakable rainbow of colors and flavorful tastes would be noticeably absent this year. There would be no sweet, sticky cranberry sauce, Aunt Quita’s extra cheesy macaroni, or Grandma’s one- of- a- kind celery infused dressing. I had to do something. I could not sit around on my second favorite holiday of the year and lament. After moping around in the quintessential teenager fashion, I knew what I would do to contribute to our meager, pathetic meal! I was hoping that maybe my favorite food would help me feel better and add a little oomph to our first holiday meal without the loud yelling, laughter, and antics of the extended Robinson family. I would make a sweet potato pie!

I had no idea how difficult the process of making the pie would be. Who knew that it would take sweet potatoes so long to soften? I stuck them in the oven and assumed they only needed a little bit of heat, but thirty minutes later they were fully heated and just as hard as they were when I bought them.

Hoping to start over, I typed “how to soften sweet potatoes” into Google. I learned I needed to boil them and a short while later I had semi- soft sweet potatoes. Once I had finally done enough to make the potatoes somewhat malleable, I mixed in the other ingredients using a wooden spoon. As I observed the blending of the coarse brown sugar with the butter, eggs, and vanilla extract, I began to get excited about my pie. I was beginning to think that maybe I could start a new tradition with my mom, dad and sister. Maybe I could spend a little time every Thanksgiving making a pie; I could spend time making a creation other people would enjoy.
As soon as I had mixed all the ingredients for the filling, I dipped my finger in the buttery, fiery, sunset colored fusion of cream and sweetness. I brought my finger to my mouth and reflected on the many Thanksgivings of the past when I had devoured the store bought creations of some food machine in a factory far away. I knew this would be so much more. More satisfying. More enjoyable. This pie would be mine, not something to devour; it was a creation to be savored.

Using my mother’s baby blue spatula, I gently spread the filling in the frozen pie crust I had. I must admit it was a little chunky, a product of my overzealousness when it came to prematurely taking the potatoes out of the boiling water. I was not disappointed about the imperfections, though. They seemed to make the pie uniquely mine. I placed my newest creation in the oven with a sense of accomplishment which was probably too big for the recently completed feat.

After about an hour and a half of baking, I began to smell the sweet aroma of vanilla from the kitchen. As I was taking the pie out of the oven, I got a text message from my best friend, Joya. “Congrats on your first sweet potato pie.” I had to crack a smile. I took my pie out of the oven and showed it to my mom, who hugged me and told me she could not wait to eat it. My father did the opposite. He made a comment about wanting to continue living, so he would skip the pie. I laughed. That night the four of us, my parents, my sister, and I, had our first Thanksgiving in our house without my dad’s ten siblings and their families. We had started a new tradition. My chunky, sweet, homemade creation was part of it all.

Picture Source: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/38/5aday_sweet_potato.jpg

(Revised) The Smell of Family

Have you ever smelled food that immediately brought you back to a fond memory from the past? Researchers say that the human sense of smell is the sense most closely connected to our memory. It absolutely amazes me how the smell of chicken marsala is deeply tied to so many of my treasured, childhood memories.

At Carrabba’s, a local Italian restaurant, my family often reflects on memories as we indulge in the sweet, authentic food. From the time I was a young boy, I vividly remember going to eat at Carrabba’s, but only for special occasions! For me, I always order one of their signature dishes: chicken marsala. And every time I smell it, I am brought back to the holidays, birthdays, dates, and celebrations that I love so much.


Any holiday, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, or Easter becomes a timely excuse to visit the home of the most perfect Chicken Marsala. As we enter the restaurant, the hostess always recognizes my family since we eat there so much. We exchange smiles as she gives us a friendly hello. My family and I are always handed a few menus as we take our seats in the dimly lit family style restaurant. While we may take a brief look at the menu, it is only a formality. We know that when it comes time to order, the decision will be an easy one: “Chicken Marsala times five”. My brother smiles and says, “I heard that you are out of Chicken Marsala tonight?” He always gets a little chuckle from the table, but he also knows that they have never run out of their prized, coveted dish. Sitting at the round table with a white tablecloth, we all share stories of laughter and memories. The first course of the meal is warm white bread. Our server slowly pours the finest olive oil over the perfect blend of dry spices in the middle of a saucer. He then drizzles expertly aged, balsamic vinegar throughout the olive oil as if he is creating a work of art. Like kids at a candy store, we all aggressively rush to be the first to dip the mouth-watering bread into the tantalizing mixture. My mouth waters before I can even reach for a piece. As the bread is broken, trapped steam slowly flows from within its soft porous texture onto my hand. The level of conversation is at a minimum as we focus on pleasuring our hungry palates. I stuff piece after piece into my already full mouth. Worried that I am going to fill up on bread, I refrain myself from eating too much.

The second course quickly comes. The smell of the dressing catches my attention immediately. Caesar salad with a creamy Italian dressing is served. Croutons and freshly graded Parmesan cheese tops the sweet lettuce and ripe tomatoes. So many flavors enter my mouth with every bite. The third course finally comes after much anticipation! Our waitress very calmly places the chef’s unique creation in front of our eyes and noses. I look down at what looks like heaven, smells amazing, and tastes even better! Grilled chicken topped with mushrooms and a creamy wine sauce served with fettuccini alfredo. The server shreds the fresh Romano cheese over my plate in front of me. It slowly melts adding a beautiful creamy texture to the surface of a perfectly charred, thick and juicy, split chicken breast. The pasta is so creamy and tender that it melts in my mouth with every bite. Everything is wonderful! I devour the food in no time, as if I inhaled it instead of eating it, leaving nothing, savoring every morsel, making sure that every drop of Marsala sauce passes across my excited taste buds. As I sit back in my chair and reflect on the meal that we’ve just experienced. The rich aroma of the wood-fired oven permeates the room along with the warm fellowship of my family makes the whole experience of my date with Chicken Marsala one of my most treasured memories.

http://www.competeagain.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/Chicken-Marsala.bmp

As I got older, I began to go on dates. There was this one particular girl named Taylor. I really liked her. Wanting to impress her, I decided to take her to Carrabba’s so she could experience those smells and tastes that were close to my heart! I wanted the night to be special so she could take in the whole experience, just like I had done many times before. I would pick her up around eight o’clock. It was wintertime, and she had a scarf wrapped around her long brown hair. Taylor was wearing long pants with a shiny blouse. She looked beautiful as always. The meal exited her as much as me because I talked the food up so much. We walked in and just smelling the food increased my appetite greatly. I couldn’t wait for her to savor the famous Chicken Marsala! We were seated in a romantic booth with a vine covered trellis overhead. The relaxing dim lights combined with the sharp smells from the kitchen created the perfect atmosphere for any date. I encouraged her to order my favorite dish and she did. She fell in love with the rich taste of the Marsala sauce just like I had done many years earlier. However, she chose to accompany her Chicken with garlic mashed potatoes. Laughing, I reached across the table for a small sample of the tender potatoes with my fork. She smiled beautifully at me. I blushed as I was simultaneously mesmerized by the flavor of the buttery potatoes and everything else that was beautiful at the table. We finished the date with some chocolate mousse cake topped with vanilla ice cream. The dark chocolate with the dripping Hersey syrup and melting vanilla ice cream was out of this world. The combination of the warm cake and cold ice cream created a wonderful sensation. It was a perfect ending to a perfect meal on a perfect date. Taylor and I both loved our food and had a great time. I was with two things I love most: Taylor and Chicken Marsala. Now, every time I smell the rich tastes of Chicken Marsala, I am hit with the warm comforts of family and friends. It’s a truly wonderful experience to enjoy such wonderful food with family. And everytime we do, it seems as though we are even closer. Now, every time I smell the rich tastes of chicken marsala, the warm comforts of friends and family comes over me. Its truly a wonderful experience to enjoy wonderful food with family. And every time I do, I feel the closeness of my family's love.

A little taste of Brazil

My parents came to town for parents weekend. I was happy to see them. But I was more excited that I got something different than Brittain or Wingnuts. My parents and I ended up going to a restaurant called Sal Grosso, a Brazilian Steak House. The concept with Sal Grosso is a very unique one. When you sit down, you are given a clean plate and a card that is green on one side and red on the other. After this waiters walk around the dining room with large cuts of meat and even larger knives. If your card is on green they will stop at your table and give you a few slices of meat. If red they will continue past. As long as your card is on green, the meat keeps coming. The types of meat range from various cuts of steak, lamb, pork and chicken with all of it being well seasoned and tasty. They also have a salad bar that offsets all the meat you will be eating. With the lack of real red meat I have been getting for the last 6 weeks, Sal Grosso was the perfect place to go.

A Taste of Home

This weekend i visited my Grandmother with my mom and two brothers to celebrate her eighty-fifth birthday, and she cooked an meal that puts Brittain's food easily to shame. Now i know what most of you are thinking, why would you make your grandmother cook for her own birthday? However, to her, cooking is by no means a chore. In the past we have tried to take this burden off of her, but every time my Grandmother fervently insists that she cook so we have learned to let her enjoy her passion for cooking. Anyway, the meal was absolutely astonishing. We devoured the succulent pork chops and demolished the side items (creamed corn, potatoes, and green beans). Shortly after enjoying that meal so thoroughly, i came to a disappointing truth. I'm stuck eating dinning hall food for a while...

Memories from Sito's Kitchen (Revised)

Growing up in the small town of Monaca, about 30 miles Northwest of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, my grandparents, aunts, and uncles played a significant role in my childhood. My father's mother Sito, Arabic for grandmother, lived next door and many of my notable memories of food came from her. Her parents brought many traditional Lebanese recipes with them when they arrived in America in 1925, and she continues to cook these for her family.

One of our favorite dishes is Sito's stuffed grape leaves. The Lebanese version is somewhat similar to the better-known Greek version: the leaves from grape vines are wrapped around a mixture of ground beef and rice and boiled in water with olive oil and garlic. They take about 20 minutes to cook and make a perfect after-school snack or side dish. But because the grape leaves are only in season for three to four weeks in June, picking and stuffing them is a huge operation. The process takes two days.

The first day Sito picks and washes the leaves. There were once grape vines in the sparsely wooded field next to her house (up until my father built a house over them), but she now goes to several other locations in our town. She quickly scans the vine, cutting off the leaves that pass her inspection - too green and it will be too tough, not green enough and it will fall apart. The difficulty is finding people who are willing to give up the leaves. She aims to pick two hundred. The leaves on a grape vine protect the grapes from the sun, otherwise the grapes dry out, rendering them unusable for wine.

The second day she wraps. Usually someone will accompany her when picking, but no one else is allowed to wrap, no one else is good enough. She mixes the ground beef, rice, spices, and pine nuts in a large bowl, puts a small ball in the middle of a leaf, and wraps it tight. She places the stuff grape leaf in a freeze-friendly aluminum pan, and repeats for five thousand leaves.

I prefer to eat my grape leaves with Sito's home made khoubiz, pita bread. Baked in her basement oven in batches of 12 to 15 dozen loaves, my entire family looks forward to "bread days." I step off the bus after school, open my front door, and see the hastily scribbled phrase "Sito Made Bread" in my father's handwriting on a Post-It note on the table. I drop my bookbag and and sprint to her house. I open the door to her basement and the glorious smell of fresh baked bread hits me. I step into her back room to find Sito and my father sitting at the table, surrounded by stacks of bread still warm from the oven, enjoying a loaf of fresh bread with peanut butter and Sito's homemade blackberry jam. I tear off a third of a loaf, make myself a sandwich as fast as I can, and join them. The bread that survives this feeding will be frozen and we will eat it over the next few months, but nothing comes close to fresh, home made khoubiz.

One of Sito's more exotic foods is kibbi: raw ground beef mixed with spices and wheat, topped with olive oil and mild or hot peppers, and served with khoubiz. This Sunday treat is the center of my earliest childhood memories involving food, and I can remember the first time I tried it. My mother, who is Italian and German, was always afraid of us contracting E. coli or some other deadly disease and never let my brother and I eat it. But that Sunday afternoon, my mother gave in and I have been addicted since.

Kibbi topped with olive oil and peppers served with khoubiz.

Lahem mishwi, lamb kebabs, is another of my favorite dishes. Sito buys a leg of lamb from a local butcher that who raises the lambs himself. She cuts the leg into pieces about the size of a golf balls, and puts them on skewers. Grilling them is my usually contribution to the meal, which is about the extent of my cooking abilities. Just before the lahem mishwi is done, she will bring out some warm bread and I will wrap it around the skewers to soak up the the juice. This is the best, if not the healthiest, part of lahem mishwi.

A hundred yards behind my house, just before a patch of woods, lies an acre of weeds and small trees, including thousands of blackberry bushes. Years ago, Gido, my grandfather, cleared paths about every ten feet into the thicket. In the cool July mornings, when my parents were at work, Sito would take my brother and I (and my sister, when she was old enough) into the field with a plastic cup to pick the berries that were ripe. She would watch as my brother and I raced to fill up our cup first. We took the blackberries back to her kitchen and stood behind her impatiently as she washed them. When they were done we blended them with vanilla ice cream to make milkshakes. The leftovers were frozen and once we collected six cups, Sito me a blackberry pie with her homemade crust and Bruster's chocolate ice cream on the side.

My Uncle Paul, who lives in Tennessee, comes home every July, and he, my father, and now my brother and I, will pick gallons of blackberries for Sito to turn into homemade blackberry jam. My parents claim not to have purchased a jar of jam since they married 21 years ago, and Sito's is all I've ever known. I put her jam on the pancakes my mother makes on Sunday mornings before church and on the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I took to school every day until eighth grade.

Though most of these memories are from years ago, I still enjoy Sito's food today just as much as I did then. I can't wait for Thanksgiving, when I will be enjoying Sito's kibbi, khoubiz, stuffed grape leaves, and lahem mishwi, surrounded by my family once again.

Blog 1 Revistion: Cheesy Revelations

Over twenty years ago, my dad took an oath to this country and swore to protect it against all enemies both foreign and domestic. Throughout the majority of his tenure with the military, the United States faced relatively few explicit threats and did not need to worry about unseen threats because the threats were across the ocean and out of our hair. The lack of threats made his position as a reserve officer relatively undemanding, only consisting of one weekend a month and a few weeks during the summer. My dad lived a life considered to be a normal civilian one, one that allowed him to spend time with his family, letting him be the above average family man that he wanted to be. On September 11^th, 2001, this ideal living drastically transformed for my father, and essentially changed how my family would operate.

To reach the nearest military base that my father ever worked at, it required a cramped, three hour car ride through uneven, mountainous highways, removing any chance of comfort for either I or my two sisters. The luckiest one of us would reach the back seat of my mom’s van first. The seat created the opportunity to lounge out and catch a couple minutes of rest and relaxation before being jarred awake by a sharp turn or a sudden change in elevation. To make it anywhere else the military stationed my dad required long waits in queues, stripping down to little more than my birthday suit, and possible delays due to the most inventive excuse the airline could come up with that day. Then too soon after my ordeals, I would have to say my goodbyes to my dad.

The only guaranteed extended time that my family could be whole again came in the Christmas holiday seasons. My dad stored up his yearly allowance of leave, making sure he always had enough to stay for a week or two. His visits were joyous surprises. Even though I always knew he was coming home, I was never told when. I only found out his about his visits by putting my sleuthing skills to the test and watching for certain foods and ingredients that my mother stockpiled in my refrigerator and pantry.

Sausage balls are one of my dad’s favorite holiday treats. A hodgepodge, Frankenstein mixture of shredded cheese, ground sausage, and the ever useful Bisquik, sausage balls turn out to be a tasty concoction that is even more convenient than a sandwich. Bisquik was a constant fixture in my kitchen pantry; however, the other needed items did not. The simultaneous addition of cheese and sausage to my fridge became the clues alerting me to my mom’s plans to make sausage balls for my dad to enjoy and that my dad would arrive home soon. On the early Saturday mornings that my mom called me to the kitchen to get out the ingredients and big plastic mixing bowl, a sense of excitement and nervousness buried itself deep in my stomach. My mind raced with thoughts of what was to come. Will my dad be any different? Will he be happy to be back home? Will everything be up to his standards? Will he like what I was making him? None of this mattered. My dad only cared that he saw his family. And truly all I cared about was that I saw him. The sausage balls were just a bonus.

The other item that tipped me off to my dad’s homecoming was the oxymoronic fresh frozen turkey sitting in our fridge thawing, readying itself to meet its demise. My dad jumped on the deep fried turkey bandwagon early. And after our first taste of the crispy poultry, the rest of my family was hooked too. We demanded the turkey’s presence at every holiday family function. But with the danger of frying a turkey, my dad was the only person with enough hair on his chest to bold the dangers of hot oil spills, fire flare-ups, and the whipping cold winds that came with the season. Early Christmas morning, after the turkey had thawed, my dad, armed with a syringe and the mindset of a mad scientist, injected marinade into the turkey, making sure each year’s turkey was better than the last. I saw at the bar across the counter from him. And we just talked, about life, about food, about anything. Over that turkey, minutes became hours, the meaningless became deep. Everything took on a more significant value when being discussed around those 12 pounds, regardless of what it may have been. The bird made it seem that we were never apart and we realized that the only time that mattered was the present.

As you can see, gas fryers provide a little more excitement, but the end justifies the means!

Years later, I wonder why my parents never told me of my dad’s travel plans. Why did they leave me to my own devices to figure out when I could return my interim title of man of the house? I can only come to the conclusion they wanted my dad’s visits to be a more special occasion even though the visits are somewhat of a surprise you can only attempt to hide.

Every Christmas, my family still attempts to get together as best as possible. Yet with all of our demanding lives, we rarely have the chance to celebrate how we once did, leaving my parents to drift from child to child as available. I have come to miss being able to have my family whole. I have come to miss making sausage balls for my dad’s return with my mom. I have come to miss watching my dad injecting the bird with the tastiest of medicines. I have come to miss the meaning of these foods to me. But the one thing that has not left me is the excitement and nervousness of my dad, now along with my mom, walking through my door, my mind still racing with some old thoughts that I had when I was a kid along with some new thoughts that I must face. Will my parents think I am successful? None of this matters. My parents only care that they see their kid. And I only care that I see them.

Photo courtesy of: Neeses Sausage

http://www.neesessausage.com/sausage_balls.php

Video courtesy of: Youtube

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NA71ZEmOQko