RecipeMuncher

As a kid I went to a lot of Phish shows, and from Red Rocks to Oswego, this refrain could be heard all through the parking lots, shouted by greasy-dreaded whiteboys with Coleman tailgate grills and hand-lettered cardboard signs, hawking sloppily thrown-together burritos filled with God knows what.  Never would I have imagined back then that I would be make for myself food somewhat in the vein of this product I so reviled and associated with the stigma of neo-hippies stumbling and juggling dev (...)