Core77 has the details and backstory on this new modern wonder, which is so cute we could squeeze its little face until there’s ketchup everywhere. Anybody seen these in the wild yet?

Kelchner’s Bucks County business has been in operation since 1983, and their horseradish mustard blend has been a favorite in my home since I can remember. There’s nothing quite this mix of delicious brown mustard and that finely shredded spicy white stuff to clear your sinuses! Goes great with soft pretzels, pumpernickel bread, in salad dressings or in soup!

Yesterday we told you about the Sriracha Cookbook, and today we find this homage to the Rooster Sauce. Food And Ink is a blog of Restaurants, Food, Chefs & Tattoos. We know the post is a few years old, but we couldn’t help ourselves.

‘We Are Miracle Whip And We Will Not Tone It Down’

Tone what down? The tangy zip? The weird-ass consistency? The fact that you have the words ‘Salad Dressing’ on your label, even though we haven’t seen anyone not stoned as shit put you on a bowl of lettuce?

But we digress. We thought the ad went completely unnoticed until tweet discussions started about the silliness. Fellow foodies Drew Lazor of  Meal Ticket and Jennie Hatton (follow our friends on Twitter @mealticket, @drewlazor, @profiletip) swapped twitquestions and guffaws. Even Stephen Colbert got in on the act, parodying the commercials that we have yet to see. No publicity is bad publicity, especially in a condiment clash.

But today, the re-release of Hellman’s ‘Say No To Fake Food’  TV spot, was a shot across the bow. We are smack dab in the middle of a Sandwich Spread War. Usually, we believe in the Rebellion against The Empire, but really, we can’t see any reason to side with Miracle Whip here, and they will be crushed/assimilated.

But just as the mighty Wolverines staged their attack against the Russkies in Red Dawn, lives will be lost. Most notably Jennifer Grey. And we will have to choose where our dedication lies. And fight. Fight to the death. Remember where you were, as your grandkids will surely ask.

WE ARE MAYONNAISE. DO. NOT. FUCK. WITH. US.

We suggest you buy yourself a big jar of Mermaid BBQ Sauce, handmade right here in Philly proper. Gluten-free, vegan-friendly, and feckin’ awesome. Grillmaster Scott, the mastermind behind Mermaid, is an enigmatic and affable gent. He also soundly beat everyone’s ass at the NoLibs Rib Cook Off last Saturday. HARD. His ribs were perfect in all three categories (appearance, taste, and tenderness/consistency) and he brought his own sauce. To SELL. Confidence is making people pay for shit you’re already giving away free. Needless to say, there’s a huge jar of it sitting in our fridge. We’ve put it on everything. If you want to purchase the fishtailed lass, email the man: mermaidbbq [at] gmail [dot] com.

Scott may not be able to recreate the smell of burning flesh during those cold winter months, but the taste of Mermaid will keep your tastebuds in the right place until Spring. They’re BIG jars, with a paper label featuring the sexy siren taped to the glass. They’ll last ’til Thanksgiving, and there’s nothing better than BBQ Turkey and stuffing.

We sent wine psycho Collin Flatt to Belize in search of the elusive and illegal Viper Rum. That horrifying face tells us he found it, along with a host of other local eats and drinks. More, oh so much more, pics and all, after the jump.

One thing they don’t mention in travel mags and books is that you get a dog when you arrive in Belize. Once I disembarked the puddlejumperthatcould at San Pedro Airstrip, I was greeted by a black dog with a white paint spot on his fur. He had a collar, but no tag. He was somebody’s, but on occasion, anybody’s. I called him Blanco, for any demarkation involving wall paint instantly gives you a nickname. He walked with me to the dock where a boat waited to take me to the northern reaches of Ambergris Caye, my home for the next 8 days.

I arrived in search of food and drink that I only knew by legend. Belize is a young country at 26; only recently legal to drink, but around long enough to die for the good of the land. Three languages are spoken here, English, Spanish, and Kriol. Not French Creole, mind you, but Kriol. Think Island accented English and Spanish together, you’re getting warm. I spoke to the locals in broken Spanish and Phillyish, they spoke back in broken everything. Belizeans speak all three languages, none quite well. Mix of culture makes for good sustenance, though.

The ‘city’ of San Pedro is made up of three streets, Front, Middle, and Back street, all of them active from 6AM on. Most bars and restaurants are open early (around 8-9AM) and close late depending on the day. Some never open because the owner doesn’t feel like showing up that day, making big city bustle slow down a few paces. Take it easy, Yank.

There’s a dart league Wednesday night at Cholo’s on the beach. Saul was my bartender, and the place was devoid of foreigners unless you count ex-pats. We watched pro-wrestling together, and argued the merits of getting drunk before diving with sharks. This is a bar I can get with. $1.50 will get you a Belikin, the official beer of Belize, the only beer of Belize. It’s a high quality light lager that can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Yuengling, and soundly trounces the big names. An economical choice with style. Tastes like summer’s off, before we had real jobs. Maybe it’s the environment.

$2.50 will get you a Michelada, my new favorite drink. Lime juice, black pepper, Worcestershire sauce, and season salt. Add a Belikin and Marie Sharp’s Pepper Sauce. Bloody Mary can suck it, this is the new Liquid Brunch. Miss Sharp is the hottest lady on the planet, sexy and balanced with a carrot base, there’s actually flavor with pain. Flavorful pain. She’ll be the mistress no matter the marriage. My homeward luggage contained a booty of Marie Sharp’s unlike anything my pantry has experienced. Come over on Sunday for Micheladas, 11AM. Sharp.

The beginning of June marks lobster season in Belize. At one time their greatest export, lobster is dirt cheap this time of year. I spent no more than $10 on grilled lobster while I was there. Ceviche was pitch perfect as all pinchers were caught that morning, and the ‘restaurants’ were ten steps from the water. They stuffed hauntingly succulent lobster into every culinary orifice. Burritos, flautas, tostadas, and for those who don’t care for a floury shell, grilled with butter and garlic. Grilled with jerk spices. Grilled with fucking Belize. Add a little conch to your ceviche, no charge.

Of course, plates and plates of seafood are what you’ll find in a town surrounded by water. Every piece of fish I had spent no time in a freezer or fridge, and most restaurants have a dirt floor. None of these cooks suffered one minute in culinary school, yet knew how to treat seafood proteins on sheer will, tradition, and bloodline. My worst meals were in ‘upscale’ joints, where the food lacked flavor and honesty. I had sushi that was ground up. I thought it was a practical joke and almost sent it back. The eatery had a name that wasn’t eponymous with the owner’s grandmother. Lesson learned.

Street food provided me with daytime energy and late night snacks. Pupusas were the local favorite, a small flour pocket pan fried and filled with cheese, beans and pork. Served with cabbage and hot sauce on the side, it was easily the best $1 I spent, many times over. Originally from El Salvador, the Belizean populace adopted this dish as its own. The sweet senora at Waruguma on Middle street made the best Pupusa, and was open the latest. I visited her at least 6 times I can remember, another 4 or 5 I cannot. In center square was the taco hut, open from 7PM until 4AM. A griddle, a man, his toppings, and his beef. 2 American dollars. I am the only person in history to gain weight on a trip to the Third World.

Blind Tamale Guy gets his own paragraph, shit, should have his own reality show. I met this cat who walked the streets of San Pedro dragging a cooler full of tamales wrapped in banana leaves. His wife gets up every morning at 2AM to start making the tamales, then he rides the ferry into town to sell. Wore dark shades, I bought from him twice. Third time, he struck up a convo and asked about my English. By way of Philadelphia comes my tamaleself and he had never heard of it. Made me happy to be with him. A pretty, young latina walked by and he said ‘Buenos Dias, Bonita’. Jig was up, he’s a fake. ‘No’, he said, ‘I can smell them’. But how did he know she was a looker? ‘Can’t call any woman ugly and expect to sell food.’ My man. He took off his sunglasses to reveal a horrendous scar across his face, leaving him blind. Machete induced, case of mistaken identity. Lost his sight selling tamales. Attackers got the wrong guy. Still selling tamales. My man.

Viper Rum should only be consumed in the presence of Jesus, the Devil, or both during an arm wrestling match. Illegal to make, illegal to sell, illegal to export. PETA won’t be having it. Maruba is home to the infamous potable that is 180-190 proof and contains a viper. The viper is kickin’ and bitin’ when it goes in the moonshine, and over the course of a day, kicks for the last time. The viper remains in the bottle a year or so, then the rum is served as an aphrodisiac. No one speaks of it, no one has it. After the first few glares, I felt dirty even mentioning it. My good friends who helped me smuggle Cuban cigars, rum, and Cashew Wine into the U.S. also got me the Liquid Death. It tastes like a burned snake. You can feel every cut and scrape on your body as soon as you swallow it. A foreigner becomes even more novel when he drinks it, the crowd loves a good sport. Makes for great pictures. Makes for one shot instantdrunkavision. The good news? Nothing will ever be hard to drink again. I have the power of the Viper.

After betting on Chickens Taking A Dump (not a joke), I heard of Stew Chicken, another local dish that comes with Beans and Rice cooked in coconut milk. A full plate cost me $5 and came with coleslaw. Lots of coleslaw and potato salad down there, probably from the European missionaries who came decades ago. Flavored with Marie Sharp’s and tomato base, it reminded me of buffalo chicken, but spread over the whole bird. I would eat this every day of my life, if I didn’t have Pupusas and lobster.

People in the south eat iguanas and armadillos. Alas, only certain days are Belizeans allowed to eat these animals, and they had passed before my scramble home by way of Texas. I’ll make sure to take it in next time. Non-food related activities included swimming with sharks and manta rays, climbing the top of Lamanai, and seeing monkeys and vampire bats in the jungle. Belize – go for the Viper Rum, stay for the best trip of your life.

- Collin Flatt

I. BANISH ALL FALSE GASES. I don’t even wanna hear about your bougie “convenience”: Lose that gas or propane monstrosity immediately before your children grow a third neck and invest in a Weber charcoal grill, the larger the better, and a charcoal chimney, pictured at right and which should run you a whopping 13 bucks. These things are amazing. 15 minutes and you’ve got perfect coals, hot as hell and ready to char whatever the Lord gave you to char. No tanks. No weird smell to burn off. No lighter fluid. Just a big metal cask of piping hot coals, brought to fruition under Ben Franklin-era scientific principles. The Gods, and ye, shall be pleased.

II. TO THINE OWN SAUCE BE TRUE. Now, we would not presume to dictate which BBQ sauce is the right one for you, for there are as many or more sauces than there are colors in God’s Perfect Rainbow. However, the point is this: Dig in and stick with one. Making the perfect BBQ chicken is something that can take a lifetime to perfect. Fortunes have been won and squandered in this pursuit, but glad tidings on those who can dig in their heels, find a sauce that suits them, and then — and only then — begin to perfect one’s own methodology. Personally, the greatest all-purpose BBQ sauce we’ve ever encountered is Johnny Harris Original Recipe — it’s got a fantastic flavor, it’s not hot or sweet enough to scare your guests off, and glazes perfectly. You’d be hard-pressed to find it in a local store, though, so you’d do well to order online.

III. RUB IT. Here, we will in fact get a little didactic: Put Stubb’s Rub wherever you think it should go. Wait, let us be more clear: Steaks, pork chops, chicken, ribs, briskets, even fish. The Stubb’s Rub in particular hails directly from the legendary Austin, TX BBQ joint of the same name; if you’ve gone down there for SXSW and popped in for their slow-cooked BBQ turkey, you know what we’re talking about here. It’s a critical first step in most non-hot dog/burger BBQ outings. Use liberally, and with gusto. Hell, we’ve even been known to drop this into a bloody mary or on some shrimps. Available in many local supermarkets.

IV. HONOR THY WOMEN (AND MEN) WITH A REFRESHING VODKA THYME LEMONADE. We’ll get to the beer scene in a minute, but in the midst of all this carnage and burning flesh, let us pause to ponder the more genteel aspects of the BBQ: The sweet silence in the breeze at quarter of or quarter after, the inevitable food coma, the ancient love ritual of presenting your intended with with a plate of sustenance. The Vodka Thyme Lemonade, as told to us by the unlikely Viking princess Martha Stewart, only entered our lives a couple of years ago, but its gentility would seem to reverberate through time itself:

2 cups sugar
12 sprigs fresh thyme, plus more for garnish
4 cups freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 cups vodka

It is simple. It is elegant. It will, in time, put you on your ass.

V. RESPECT THE BUBBA. Before you cry “Heresy!,” know this: Yes, of course, making your own burgers by hand is a beautiful tradition aging back to the cavemen. It is right to mix egg, meat, onion, Worcestershire and what have you; it is His Way. (Sorry, we’re getting really carried away with this God stuff.) But sooner or later, you’re going to want to enjoy the company of your guests, or perhaps you’re tailgating or camping, and the available tools may not be handy. And lo, you will, you shall be tempted by the convenience and quickness of that most sketchy of all burgers: The frozen ones. For decades, we scoffed at such an idea. Then, Bubba Burger came along. We don’t know how they did it, but they did. This is the most (and by our count, only) delicous frozen burger ever created. If you must use one, use this one. But there’s one caveat: Do not allow yourself or your physician to ever know the nutritional information on the side of the box.

VI. IT IS RIGHT AND PROPER TO GRILL THE CORN.

VII. WOE BETIDE THE ONE WHO NEGLECTS THE FRUITS OF THE EARTH AND SEA. Often, seafood gets short shrift at the average BBQ. As does the humble, grillable vegetable. But mostly, people are simply petrified of grilling fish, and with good reason. It’s at this point we’d like to put two bugs in your ear: The Grill Basket, and Ippolito’s. Taken together, they could rock your world. The basket, of course, holds otherwise sticky things like fish and veggies in a protective shark cage where they can be grilled and then later released onto a plate and into one’s body. We give a shout-out to Ipp’s here as well, just as a reminder: Unless you have a high-end supermarket like Wegman’s or Whole Foods in your ‘hood, it’s a pretty safe assumption that the seafood at your local supermarket sucks. We used to live down the street from Ippolito’s (one in the Italian Market, another at 13th and Dickinson), and we’re sworn to the place for life now — the seafood is impeccably fresh, and sales staff are really helpful and sweet. (Plus, they’ve got a bevy of great sides that are worth checking out — and often, Maryland blue crabs, which we’ll go into in great detail at a later date.) Wander in with no preconceptions: Just see what looks good.

VIII. WHY DON’T WE DO IT IN THE ROAD? Here in the city, many of us suffer from a severe lack of yard. But people in neighborhoods like Kensington and Fishtown will not be deterred from this circumstance, viewing the BBQ as every human being’s right. They are not wrong. Take it where you can get it. If you have no yard, do it on your stoop. It may not be legal, but out here in the neighborhoods, the cops don’t care, they’ve got bigger problems and can often be bought off with a hot dog, which you’ll be happy to share anyway, right? It is, after all, a BBQ. Just watch yourself with those open containers, sheriff.

IX. FEAR NOT THE MACROBREW. Listen: The 1990s were a long, long time ago. Nobody cares about your hoppy microbrew in the scorching noonday sun. In fact, you need to dead that shit altogether, and drink beer the way your father drank beer at the BBQ. We’re talking about Miller High Life. We’re talking about Corona. We’re talking about Michelob, Rolling Rock, and God help us, even Coors Light. Don’t be a snob. If a man offers you a Coors at an outdoor location where raw flesh is being charred, who are you to refuse it?

X. AND FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, DO NOT FORGET THE POTATO SALAD.

And on behalf of everyone here at Phoodie.info, HAPPY GRILLING!