Meat cannon!

  Geographical paradox, which kebab undoubtedly is, comes from Regardless County, yet its shrouded origin is of no importance in the light of current unstoppable conquest. Its expansion was faster and more efficient than necessity to violently deflore toilet after elderly buttermilk. Especially given that ‘Middle east’, dry with sand and wet by blood region which is commonly indicated as genesis of this dish as popular as irritating clerks, is not as distant as where described events take place. The necessity of resisting this locust of rams lead, with short wasted steps, to HIM. Polish kebab, symbol of patriotic cuisine, slightly far-fetched allegory of battle under Chocim - we invite you to learn its secrets. All photos, one above included, are results of private research in the field of this fierce battle.

Ingredients:

Fuck if we knew how many,

at least we know of what:

Grape-meat-shots in service of His Royal Majesty:

• Pork chop
• Flour
• Bread crumbs
• Egg

Bread cannon:

• Bread (surprise, surprise)

Powder of national liberation (cabbage):

• Sauerkraut
• Wannabe mushrooms (champignon mushrooms)
• Bacon/greaves
• Red wine (strategically helpful)

Firing pan:

• Pickled cucumber

Cannon field-grease::

• Cream
• Mayonnaise
• Horseradish
• Garlic
• Randomly chosen spices

    

Image of arsenal during preparations to battle with ram opposition. Tears caused by slicing the onion, dedicated to the insurgents, will force to reflexion about the state our country is in.

We begin with preperation of the cooks, lead by Grand Liquor Hetman. Slight intoxication is highly adviced, on one hand to unleash sarmatian fantasy, on the other to give soldiers remarkable power and eagerness to fight against expansion. Cabbage slashing redefine, in a modern way, historicaly immortal relief which took place under Vienna. It is highly recommended to exhilarate soldiers with hoppy drinks, as heavier ones may lead to unplanned redecoration which is not reasonable under given circumstances.

National liberation dust ought to feel atmosphere of will of fight as well as brotherly love (one should not confuse this with destructive trends from rotten west). Cabbage treated this way becomes less sour and it earns sweet taste of acceptance, which is inevitable for leading people to the barricades. Cabbage fibers as long as queue to the liquor store on the weekend has to be standardised in order to achieve even combustion in cannon cell (or comfortable consumption, it doesn’t matter what is the purpose, you have to cut it ferociously). One should set heat of the gunsmith furnace to a non-intrusive level, then load the dust to pot, add onions (multilayered eastern olives), priorly fried bacon and chopped wannabe mushrooms.

Pokeball prototypes, armoured hen embryos, will be necessary to create shells of grape-meat-shots, which can proudly compete with shishkebab

Meat should be slaughtered to pieces neat and gorgeous as depicted in the above photography. After coating meat in hen arche, one should form bullet shells with breadcrumbs, flour and favourite, as native as possible, spices. Authors have no idea which spices has been used in this attempt, probably hot pepper, black pepper and white not-so-pepper spice (I mean salt). But it is not for sure.

In the meantime cabbage, confused and stirred regularly, softens and imbues with taste with a great speed, gaining piroplastic attributes in the process.

As our motivation is to care about the cabbage and its insurgent will, it is highly recommended to let it drink. It should happen in the final stage of preparations to the revolt. Even basically trained botanist know that native spieces of cabbage are into semi-dry red wines exclusively. To maintain the atmosphere of friendship wine has to be also consumed with comrades.

Small grape-meat-shots differ from fully qualified bullets mostly by scale of damage dealt to ram foot soldiers. In the image we can observe a process of hardening the bullets shells, which is exact compared to working armament of greater caliber.

Hollowing a bread halve is a very precise operation, thus usage of hussar sabre is most reasonable. Other national, european, blades might be used as a substitute.

Ingredients of cannon ointment should be mixed either with great affection or by more modern (yet somewhat soul-devoided) means - blender, washing machine with blades in the drum or mower. Our bread cannon barrels, oven heated for crispy effect and hardening, might be as red-hot as a fasted pedophile in kindergarten, thus we recommend to use fire proof armor or caution, depending on character class.

Atmosphere of just uprising in the kitchen-arsenal was so strong that bottles couldn’t wait to be consumed.

Time to fill dullness with dreams and our cannon with powder. Grape-meat-shots and piroplastic materials in barrel shall be layered and stuffed in turns to maximize the devestation potential.

Bon appetit and prepare to fight! As the ram is coming!

Ram's revenge

  Hot water, only poorly dyed with substitute of tea, stood there poured into simple glasses with extraordinarily tasteful handles. According to one of the least reasonable decisions in the history of mankind, handles were made of aluminum. Thanks to that, any possibility of contact with them occurs only after complete cooldown of the liquid. Sensible socrealistic design at its best. Whether was it some ideological reason to invent this, or rather a military ingenuity, one will never know.

  - Assassination, for the fuck’s sake - Andrew said through his teeth, leaning in a squeaky chair. He was pushing a few ice cubes wrapped in devastated cloth against his sore occiput. His other hand was getting closer to the aluminum handle, luckily self-preservation instinct prevailed and fingers were finally used to scratch his balls. 

  - No doubt, it was them! Wankers in turbans! - he went on being even more agitated. - I was backing home from work when it started to rain heavily. And one does not simply walk without fear in this kind of rain. So I decided to hide under the umbrella in front of the kebab spot. And then I saw him, looking at me, with a pinch of hostility and a handful of lust - as if I was a young goaty-toaty. And I had a roll and a wurst in my briefcase, hardworking day, you see. Standing there I took few quick bites. You should see his face… That was? them, I tell you, and this means WAR! It’s time to reveal our secret weapon...

From the West!

  Stench of urine, hooch and cabbage on the staircase was taking the breath away. Worn lastrico and a gallery of antisemitic phallus interpretations on the walls disgusted all over again. As usually broken elevator made me admire whole four floors of cocklike artistry, paired with breathing with an atmosphere lacking oxygen even more than Himalayan peaks. With a bit of a pant and a feeling of irreversibly lost health I have pressed yellowish and partially broken doorbell. I wasn’t pretty sure if it triggered any effect though, as shouts coming out from the corner flat would easily top a TIR horn. Ferocious knocking truly outraged plywood substitute of anti-theft doors, which pathetic clatter failed dismally with the racket on the floor. Without unnecessary rush I pressed on hideously screwed handle. 

  The door have given up easily and then I saw… (no, not the thing that the tainted western mind would be thinking about), the view that was such a disgusting cliche. The impression was close to deja vu. For the, kurwa (which is unfortunatelly not translatable in any language or any context, ever, never and KURWA), hundredth time my brother was utterly wasted. I found him, kneeling on the floor and rubbing his occiput. There was, therefore, something unsettling in this image of eastern downfall. Smell of hooch was losing against the scent of industrial linoleum polish after passing doorstep of his postcommunist chamber. And the gaze of him, who kneeled as Henry IV under the walls of Canossa, was undoubtedly less misty than you could suppose considering assumed state of blackout caused by water-ethanol mixture. 

  Muttering speech which consisted of meaninglessly combined “western rot, lack of friction and my fucking head” wasn’t enough to figure out what has happened here. Here in the lair of a guy soaked with eastern culture so much that oppressed potatoes begged for granting an asylum in his household. Gesture of hand thrown into the air has pointed kitchen direction. I stepped over a plastic bag and entered the kitchen. Nothing out of ordinary was going on there, except maybe a bottle of coke standing on the top. It might have, or even should have drawn attention of someone who knew my brother. 

  Bottle of brownish, saturated with carbon dioxide fluid couldn’t have possibly been dragged here by his own being. He wasn’t expecting any unwanted guests and Jehovah witnesses stopped knocking his door a long time ago. What’s more it was the middle of the week. Something was undoubtedly out of usual. As unusual as appearance of honest politicians somewhere in the democratic world.

From East...

The odour of western corruption was recognizable well before I got to the staircase. Not any staircase, of course, but ours, eastern, with real Slavic lastrico and panelies. Lastrico itself grimaced recognizably as if it smelled the capitalistic stench. I ran up the stairs (as the elevator haven’t passed its annual examination by the UDT - Umbrella Dodging Technicians or whatever they call each other, I mean, we all know that this is another administrational cell established to fuck up your life). With a bit of a pant and a feeling of irreversibly lost health I opened the door to my flat and stepped on my carpet. Its texture was undoubtedly unusual, emanating with anxiety. Disturbed I headed towards kitchen (which took me like 2,5 steps together with avoidance of yellow plastic bag). I was right! She standed in the kitchen, tall and proud, gazing at me with utter contempt, so common for Western folks. Some like to enjoy it while sipping whisky. Others just during warm weekend. Whatever warm ,which I have seen only in television, means. Fortunately i know its true form, it is unable to deceive me with its sweet flavor. Slavic instinct is well suited to defend against obesity and caries by the way, as it is most common to use it as a poison against uncommon guests, ideally distant family members and Jehovah witnesses. Suddenly my stream of thoughts was abruptly stopped by a hit on my occiput against under-ceiling cubbyhole, mysterious lost of balance was not caused by intoxication though, and western rot couldn’t have been so strong… Shined linoleum. Utter lack of adhesion in contact with woolen socks is an inspiration for sci-fi writers and designers of magnetic rails for a good reason. Stars swirled in front of my eyes disrupting order of rubber fugue imitation. Wildly rotating constelations were of no help while I was trying to recall, deduce or solve this puzzle by any means. Shopping, perfect tidiness and western rot, what’s more in the middle of the week!

So we begin!

Eastern block countries started to lustfully stare in the west direction after the process of decommunisation (if one is trying to imagine the lustful stare, he (or she) should put abominable, greasy piece of knuckle in front of a dog, top it with bacon (I mean knuckle, not the dog) and then seperate animal from it with impenetrable plexiglass). The forbidden fruit as we used to describe heritage of west culture, has been stimulating our imagination for a quarter of the century (if you will put aforementioned knuckle in front of obese person who is on a strict diet, you can easily and quite vividly imagine the idea of the forbidden fruit). Many say that as we assimilate trends of the West, we forget our Slavic roots and eastern mentality (here you can use the same knuckle to envision eastern mentality, simply take the knuckle and throw it away, just not to let it be eaten by anyone else, even if you’re starving to death). This process, however, began long time before the decommunisation, for centuries our habits and traditions were blending on multiple fields. Here, on this blog, our goal is to show you the history of mixing west with east, their cuisine, habits and people, in one cultural melting pot. As we’re not historians, sociologists or even keen antropologists you should take everything written down here with a pinch of salt. If this salt accidentaly contaminated your eye, you should close it and let the speech syntesizer read the note for you outloud. We will try to diversify coming notes, sometimes you may find some photos here, maybe a video, everything of course in available centuries ago HD technology (high demoralisation). Cheers and stay tune!