Friday, September 30, 2011

Oh well.

So The Boy and I are reading Laurie Notaro.

She makes me happy. Not just for her admission of leaving lipstick on teeth during a date, but also because self-deprecating humor is ALWAYS good for me...if I can relate. And she does her very best, which turns into her best at disclosure. I'm pretty sure I could confide in her pubic sideburns, and she would not just accept, but go a step further and admit the things I was in NO WISE going to admit to...except she said it.

And it's true.

She makes the hunt for panties on a bedroom floor at least realistic, if not commonplace, and warns those huns who don't think 1:00 a.m. an acceptable time to, bleary-eyed, toast the chef.

A bleary-eyed chef accolade happened to me less than a week ago.

Eff, yeah.

Doesn't matter what they are preparing and serving; a chef knows what is going on, and where he/she stands in the world. A chef is not afraid of letting someone else make suggestions.

The Boy and I are reading 'The Soul of a Chef." I confess. All I am focusing on is the ways in which I can let him down; despite a tremendously auspicious beginning, I can't do it.

I really can't.

Nope. Not kidding.

I mean it really, seriously, means I can't do it.


Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Reasons That, Well, Make Me Cackle.

I'm still not sure what it was.

"There's soup?" K. asked, incredulous. "He never told ME."

Three people peered into the murky depths of the warmer.

"What IS it?" I finally asked, again.

Nobody knew.

It takes a special kind of culinary gift to create a dish devoid of any defining characteristics. It had several kinds of, well, I am going to say macaroni rather than pasta. There were red flecks. They were not red pepper flakes, they were not tomatoes. Were they pimento? Were imagination was woefully inadequate to the task.

The loser of 'One, two, three, NOT IT!" sampled the witches brew (also, he was not there for the inaugural peek; that may have contributed to his willingness to submit to ptomaine treachery).

He still couldn't say what it was.

"What's your soup of the day?"

"I'm not sure. Kitchen Sink Stew, possibly; I just know I can't recommend what I haven't tried."

"I'm feeling brave. I'll try it."

The Majesty's Taster was procured a small sample and spoon. Later, I casually drifted back and posed the real query:

"And how was it?"


"And...WHAT was it?"

"If it had hamburger, I would say it was gazpacho."

I had to hear it again, sure I had misheard or misinterpreted.

"I'm sorry, it was like what?"


"" I said, sure that maybe if I said the word the woman with whom I was speaking would realize she was saying the wrong thing, kind of like when my mother talked for a good ten minutes with a college professor on how someone was attending a scientific suppository (instead of symposium).

"Yes," she said.

I left her to her side salad.

I freely admit I am a Food Snob. It requires capitals solely because Food Snobs insist upon it.

And yet, I get nowhere near the glamour of that title.

When called upon, I will eat absolutely nothing at any place The Boy reveres; even if the dish seems safe enough, they add some level of yuck (to me and my pedestrian tastes). A basic search will turn up the fact that, owing to my pickiness about eating seafood (if it came from the water, I'm not interested) very few appetizers remain. Even entrees result in a dish including your basic corn-fed cow turning into "I'm not eating beef cheeks. The word 'cheeks' is disgusting. Your industry should find a better way to market to hick consumers like myself."

I kinda suck when it comes to refined palates and, well, anything he's really exceptional at.

Not just kinda.

I wish I liked more things. Believe me, in a world that I fully believe is designed fully for visceral experiences, and a world that contains white and black, I guess I'm not fully prepared for either.

All I can say is, The a force to be reckoned with.