I have a personal chef. His name is George, George Foreman. Me and George get along well, real well. George will cook for me a few times a week. He understands me. He knows I am n
ot a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I am a meat guy. Seriously, I can eat nothing but meat for a meal and be more than happy. I am not a vegetable guy. At all. I can honestly tell you I cannot remember the last time I ate a vegetable. I know they are good for me, but I just don’t like them.
I
am a fairly clean, boring eater. I can eat tons of boring stuff and not complain. Fruit, nuts, chicken breast, fish, cottage cheese, tuna. I am fairly versed in the use of spice. Although my favorite was Ginger Spice from all those years ago.
I also make what I affectionately call Glop. Glop comes in many forms. At night, Glop contains a scoop of protein, oatmeal, cottage cheese, and maybe some raisins or peanut butter. Glop can also contain meat; like say diced chicken breast, crushed nacho chips, some cheese, maybe a dressing of some sort. Throw in a bowl, mix it around, nuke for 45 seconds and chow down. I have made some truly disgusting Glops that are actually pretty good. Even the dog looks at me like, “That’s disgusting.” And that’s saying something, because I am pretty sure he eats his own poop. At least I hope it’s his own poop. I am not a chef in the traditional way. Like, you know, what goes with what. I am intrinsic. I use whatever hits me at the time. I have no need for measuring cups or tea spoons. That’s what pussies use.
As it is in most relationships, my wife is the total opposite. Food Channel or whatever dafuck it’s called is her favorite channel. She can watch for hours. After watching a whole episode about cooking dish X, I will ask her if she will make it now, and she answers “no”. So then, what’s the point? She’s all into recipes and stuff. She takes an Oriental cooking class, and endures all my stereotypical jokes about how she’s cooking cats and gophers. There are things in the cabinets that only have Japanese written on them. And that scares me. How the hell are you supposed to know what’s really in them? How do you know it’s not a ploy to get dipshit Americans to eat foul stuff? Some say the war never ended….
T is also taking a night class. The class was asked when the last time some one did something nice for them was. The class-mostly broads, surprise-all said their husbands make them dinner. T seemed to be making a subconscious point when she came home to tell me this. I may be unemployed, but I ain’t stupid. It’s her gentle way of telling me she wants me to make her a dinner. For the record, I have made breakfast and lunch and dinner for her many times in the past. I think you can see that we do have differing tastes and definitions when it comes to dinner. I will gladly spice up extra chicken breasts and throw them on the grill so she can eat/use them whenever. I will always make extra turkey burgers, salmon, etc so she can mix them in a salad or take to work, etc.
My idea of ‘cooking’ involves the Foreman grill and that’s it. However, T will use these things called ‘pots’, ‘pans’, ‘stoves’ and ‘ovens’ in her cooking. That seems a tad too much for me. I am a one cooking device kinda guy. Anything more and you might as well alert the fire department. A gauntlet has been thrown down; make her dinner. Fear is struck into my heart. I mean, it’s only fair, she’s made me tons of good dinners over the years. I still refuse to eat her ‘broiled cat” or “stir fry squirrel”. Mama didn’t raise no fool.
On a Sunday while she has class, I head to Google to search for a recipe for the catfish I have. Protip when searching for recipes here, fellas; ALWAYS include the word “easy”. That will make your life so much easier. I cross reference the recipe to make sure we have everything we need in the house. Turns out I am missing 2 fucking things. It’s hard to hold onto your man card in Acme when you’re in the spice aisle.
It’s minimal work. All you do is throw the spices in a bowl, dip the catfish in and cook in the oven. OK, it was pretty smooth sailing after I figured out where the oven is. So I present her with the fish like a cat presenting a dead mouse. Ya know, “edible” is an oft under rated word. To be honest, it was fair, no Legionnaires at all. I probably fucked up correctly mixing the spices. I mean, is it my fault I don’t know the difference between what a teaspoon is and what a tablespoon is? It didn’t really taste Cajun or have a kick, but, still it was good, and there were no ensuing vomit session.
She’s been working long days lately. Plus, she’s been letting me borrow her car while mine was going into the shop. It occurred to me to give this making dinner another shot after she had a long day. She can bring home the bacon, at least I guess I can try to fry it up in the pan. Again, Google and easy lead me to a yummy sounding garlic crusted chicken. The degree is raised a bit, as I have to use the range and the oven. Dial 9 and 1 on the phone and keep it nearby.
I essentially melt butter in a pan, dip the chicken strips in, then coat them in a bowl of spices I have mixed. It’s about halfway through I realize I made a key mistake. In
my haste, I have put the garlic in the bowl, not in the pan of butter as directed. Fuck! I fucked it up and it’s gonna be all garlic-y. Too late now. I even tried to figure out if there was a way to counter act the garlic by mixing something else in. I reassure myself that doing that would just make a garlic-y situation worse. I throw the sheet of chicken in the oven and hope for the best.
T came home and went right for a nap. She was wakened by the smell of garlic chicken floating through the house. Which is far better than the expected smell of charred drywall and burnt plastic. I take the chicken out and it actually looks pretty damn good. I load up our plates. I gentlemanly let her eat first. OK, that’s bullshit, I wanted her to go first to see how bad it was. Again, mama didn’t raise no cook and she certainly didn’t raise no fool. I watch her serene face turn to that of…pleasant surprise. She keeps chewing! Damn, this is a good sign. It has been decreed; I have made “damn good chicken”.
I bite in, and am also pleasantly surprised. No overwhelming garlic taste. T is genuinely impressed. She’s such a trooper, she tells me she was dreading eating this. But I have surpassed her expectations. For once, Kev done good. So now I know how to make two things good: garlic crusted chicken and rum and coke. Now, that’s a dinner. And I see it’s after 5…
ot a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I am a meat guy. Seriously, I can eat nothing but meat for a meal and be more than happy. I am not a vegetable guy. At all. I can honestly tell you I cannot remember the last time I ate a vegetable. I know they are good for me, but I just don’t like them.I
am a fairly clean, boring eater. I can eat tons of boring stuff and not complain. Fruit, nuts, chicken breast, fish, cottage cheese, tuna. I am fairly versed in the use of spice. Although my favorite was Ginger Spice from all those years ago.I also make what I affectionately call Glop. Glop comes in many forms. At night, Glop contains a scoop of protein, oatmeal, cottage cheese, and maybe some raisins or peanut butter. Glop can also contain meat; like say diced chicken breast, crushed nacho chips, some cheese, maybe a dressing of some sort. Throw in a bowl, mix it around, nuke for 45 seconds and chow down. I have made some truly disgusting Glops that are actually pretty good. Even the dog looks at me like, “That’s disgusting.” And that’s saying something, because I am pretty sure he eats his own poop. At least I hope it’s his own poop. I am not a chef in the traditional way. Like, you know, what goes with what. I am intrinsic. I use whatever hits me at the time. I have no need for measuring cups or tea spoons. That’s what pussies use.
As it is in most relationships, my wife is the total opposite. Food Channel or whatever dafuck it’s called is her favorite channel. She can watch for hours. After watching a whole episode about cooking dish X, I will ask her if she will make it now, and she answers “no”. So then, what’s the point? She’s all into recipes and stuff. She takes an Oriental cooking class, and endures all my stereotypical jokes about how she’s cooking cats and gophers. There are things in the cabinets that only have Japanese written on them. And that scares me. How the hell are you supposed to know what’s really in them? How do you know it’s not a ploy to get dipshit Americans to eat foul stuff? Some say the war never ended….
T is also taking a night class. The class was asked when the last time some one did something nice for them was. The class-mostly broads, surprise-all said their husbands make them dinner. T seemed to be making a subconscious point when she came home to tell me this. I may be unemployed, but I ain’t stupid. It’s her gentle way of telling me she wants me to make her a dinner. For the record, I have made breakfast and lunch and dinner for her many times in the past. I think you can see that we do have differing tastes and definitions when it comes to dinner. I will gladly spice up extra chicken breasts and throw them on the grill so she can eat/use them whenever. I will always make extra turkey burgers, salmon, etc so she can mix them in a salad or take to work, etc.
My idea of ‘cooking’ involves the Foreman grill and that’s it. However, T will use these things called ‘pots’, ‘pans’, ‘stoves’ and ‘ovens’ in her cooking. That seems a tad too much for me. I am a one cooking device kinda guy. Anything more and you might as well alert the fire department. A gauntlet has been thrown down; make her dinner. Fear is struck into my heart. I mean, it’s only fair, she’s made me tons of good dinners over the years. I still refuse to eat her ‘broiled cat” or “stir fry squirrel”. Mama didn’t raise no fool.
On a Sunday while she has class, I head to Google to search for a recipe for the catfish I have. Protip when searching for recipes here, fellas; ALWAYS include the word “easy”. That will make your life so much easier. I cross reference the recipe to make sure we have everything we need in the house. Turns out I am missing 2 fucking things. It’s hard to hold onto your man card in Acme when you’re in the spice aisle.
It’s minimal work. All you do is throw the spices in a bowl, dip the catfish in and cook in the oven. OK, it was pretty smooth sailing after I figured out where the oven is. So I present her with the fish like a cat presenting a dead mouse. Ya know, “edible” is an oft under rated word. To be honest, it was fair, no Legionnaires at all. I probably fucked up correctly mixing the spices. I mean, is it my fault I don’t know the difference between what a teaspoon is and what a tablespoon is? It didn’t really taste Cajun or have a kick, but, still it was good, and there were no ensuing vomit session.
She’s been working long days lately. Plus, she’s been letting me borrow her car while mine was going into the shop. It occurred to me to give this making dinner another shot after she had a long day. She can bring home the bacon, at least I guess I can try to fry it up in the pan. Again, Google and easy lead me to a yummy sounding garlic crusted chicken. The degree is raised a bit, as I have to use the range and the oven. Dial 9 and 1 on the phone and keep it nearby.
I essentially melt butter in a pan, dip the chicken strips in, then coat them in a bowl of spices I have mixed. It’s about halfway through I realize I made a key mistake. In
my haste, I have put the garlic in the bowl, not in the pan of butter as directed. Fuck! I fucked it up and it’s gonna be all garlic-y. Too late now. I even tried to figure out if there was a way to counter act the garlic by mixing something else in. I reassure myself that doing that would just make a garlic-y situation worse. I throw the sheet of chicken in the oven and hope for the best.T came home and went right for a nap. She was wakened by the smell of garlic chicken floating through the house. Which is far better than the expected smell of charred drywall and burnt plastic. I take the chicken out and it actually looks pretty damn good. I load up our plates. I gentlemanly let her eat first. OK, that’s bullshit, I wanted her to go first to see how bad it was. Again, mama didn’t raise no cook and she certainly didn’t raise no fool. I watch her serene face turn to that of…pleasant surprise. She keeps chewing! Damn, this is a good sign. It has been decreed; I have made “damn good chicken”.
I bite in, and am also pleasantly surprised. No overwhelming garlic taste. T is genuinely impressed. She’s such a trooper, she tells me she was dreading eating this. But I have surpassed her expectations. For once, Kev done good. So now I know how to make two things good: garlic crusted chicken and rum and coke. Now, that’s a dinner. And I see it’s after 5…
1 comment:
Dramatic, poignant and tasty! Always good reading, man.
Post a Comment