Baby it’s cold outside. I say this as a warning to any rugrats keen on Toronto urban exploration tonight. If you go outside you will die. I mean, if you stay inside you’ll die too. It’ll just be at a later time. I’m sorry baby, but you’re gonna grow up only to perish. You’ve got your whole life and death to look forward to. So many things you could accomplish in your life, none of which will stave off the embrace of death’s cowl. You won’t remember your death and when you die you won’t remember your life. So if you really want to build a snowman I guess that’s fine. It’s your life to lose. Nothing matters. Eat Arby’s.
Nothing like a bit o’ cool hard nihilism to reflect the proverbial shit storm and literal ice storm raging on outside. In an attempt to be a good Samaritan (and stave off one of those warning messages from the Toronto council) I made sure to shovel my footpath when I arrived home. The several inches of snow that’ve landed atop my shovelled and salted sidewalk prove that intention means nothing and neither do we. Arby’s. Because slaughtered cow portions and Buddhism are basically the same thing.
Okay, I swear I’ll play it straight this time. I metaphorically flopped out my wang and wiggled it out the window at the snow falling outside. Yes, only metaphorically. I’m garbed in my snorlax onesie with central heating keeping the climate balmy. I cooked up a pork tenderloin with my favourite easy go to method:
- Preheat oven to 200 Celsius.
- Pat tenderloin dry.
- Create spice rub that’s equal parts salt, pepper, cumin and brown sugar. Rub.
- Sear it on all four sides for two minutes per side.
- Toss it in the oven for around 25 minutes per 500g.
It was fucking superb, obviously. Except for the part where my inefficient range hood failed to inhale all of the smoky goodness rising from the seared tenderloin. I had to open all the doors and invite icy death into my home so as not to arouse my aggressive smoke alarm. I spent most of the searing time fanning the smoke away from the detector. Once it was done I quickly threw the loin into the oven, grabbed the cast iron pan and thrust my arm outside into the frozen wasteland that was previously known as my backyard. Smoke and steam rose into the neighbourhood, inevitably drawing neighbourhood cats towards their Arctic doom. Here at Arby’s, our patties are composed of the remains of your missing loved ones. Arby’s, taste the memories.