The Mighty Viking

Conquering those things we must, one story at a time


Ah, Midrats!

You moment of freedom you, moment of choice, of living without the arbitrary rules of convention.

You culinary disaster cleanup crew of the mistakes of the day gone.
You sparker of imagination of the New Day Coming.

You don’t aspire to beautiful, but the way that you work, picking the best of what’s available, of what’s been cast off, left over, dreamed but never fulfilled – is beautiful.

Never fancy, or pretentious, you rejuvenate the mistakes of the day. You are culinary redemption, you see food for what it is, for what it could be if we didn’t hold back.

You are the salvation of the scrumptious, that was passed over for reasons that don’t matter, that should never have mattered.
Midrats, you are the gatherer of the downtrodden, the maligned food that is beautiful at its core, the giver of choices without the judgment of Breakfast, or Lunch, or Dinner.

Midnight Rations.

The gathering of leftovers, of re-creation.
The Dagwood Sandwich of meals.

How I love your style, your lack of style. The pajama party of meals, quietly conspiring with the rebels of the night shift. You revolution you.
You’re the guerrilla warfare assault on institutionalized culinary dysfunction, with bacon in places is shouldn’t be, with corned beef, or cheese and crackers, the birthplace of Cobb Salad.

The last chance to Carpe the bejeebus out of the closing Dium.

The last toast to the faded night.

The first cast of the new morning.

Midrats.   You Rogue Pirate Gastronomique.
Like it  or not, you are beautiful.


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3 Responses to “Midrats”

  1. Brian Lawrence says:

    Midrats majesty
    Mystery meats galore
    Always one meat
    Covered and neat
    With sauces and gravies
    Civies and Soldiers abhor
    My favorite by far
    Mystery Meat number five
    Would hour after hour
    Haunt the Control Room
    When I had the Dive

  2. Chuck Vroman says:

    Midrats was usually the best “meal” of the day on some of the older SSBNs.

    The off-off-off brand ravioli was usually better than the brown “stuff” in the pans that could not be identified by sight or smell, especially right after blowing sanitary tanks. We did not have cooks – we had chemical engineers.

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