dauberies

����� Last night we decided to pay a visit to the food cart corner of Hawthorne and 12th. We had grabbed a steaming paper box of poutine a week or so earlier, and although it was surprisingly delicious, the other late night options had caught our eye, too.�
��� We pulled up and parked, and made a circuit of the carts. Mexican, soup, potato-based fried things, and an anarchist cart named YARP which just reminds me of that trail mix recipe, GORP.� I got drawn in by the neatly lettered sign advertising Q�BBQ. They have a rotating menu, and this weekapos;s special was brisket. Saucy, steaming, brisket. I got a smear of dark barbecue sauce on my sweater, but so help me, it was a gorgeous pile of soft meat on a bun, and it was the best thing Iapos;ve eaten in just about forever.
��� Tonight, Dave came by the store as I got off of work, and when we wandered into the Fred Meyer to buy gum, I asked if he was hungry. He wound up admitting that he had gone by and gotten some more brisket, right before he picked me up. I struck a deal, right then and there. I would buy his gum, he would take me back by the food carts for my own brisket. When we both got into the car, I could still smell the sauce lingering in the air. "You wouldnapos;t have gotten away with it for long," I said.
�� As I waited for my brisket, Dave crossed the street to Burgerville. He came back with a bag of sweet potato fries and a milkshake, and by God, if life wasnapos;t truly perfect at that moment in time, there would be no reason to ever assume perfection was possible. Brisket,� thick berry milkshake, and sweet potato fries.

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