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bewizeI'm a terrible cook.
Actually, that's a lie. I'm a decent cook. Sometimes, I'm even a pretty good cook. But, I tell people that I"m a terrible cook all the time. It's a lie that I use, not solely because I am lazy and that way they cook for me instead of the other way around, but also - and primarily, might I add - for their own protection.
You see, I am what I call an interesting cook. (Interesting is a term that I often use to avoid offending. "What do you think of my new outfit/haircut/car/house?" "It's interesting! I love *some small tidbit that I can honestly say I love.*) It is always an adventure.
Allow me to elucidate. I decide, in a moment of industrious business, that I should cook at home more often. This may be for reasons involving any or a combination of the following: a) healthier cooking geared specifically towards weight loss; b) money; c) a desire to entertain people; or d) my inner masochist chimes in with "wouldn't this be a good idea?" and I stupidly believe her.
Step One: Scan cookbooks for something that I want to eat. I'm not a picky eater. I like pretty much everything but broccoli, but this doesn't make this an easier process. I'm attracted to the bizarre. This is a fact that is part of my everyday life and I've learned to live with it, but it doesn't make it any easier when what I finally decide on has about 2 dozen ingredients, half of which I've never heard of and none of which I have, except for salt.
Step Two: Make a grocery list.
Step Three: Go to the store.
Step Four: Realize I left the grocery list at home. Fake it. Now, I invariably end up with less than what I need and more of what I don't need.
Step Five: Decide to cook anyway. Surely there isn't that much difference between cinamon and nutmeg. After all, both go into cookies. And pies. I like cookies and pies. This is fine.
Step Six: Realize I forgot something critical - like the protein. (Note: I said protein because I watch enough cooking shows - let's hear it for Top Chef, whoot, whoot! - that I fancy myself a foodie. *snort*) Go back to the store and buy that, plus about half of what else I forgot. If I forget it twice, it can't possibly be that important. Right?
Step Seven: Proceed to start cooking. Completely fail to go in the order that is suggested in the cookbook. Use every possible pot/pan/bowl/utensil that I can.
Step Eight: Discover some strange utensil that I've never heard of and use that for whatever mashing/stirring/pounding that I need. Get distracted and look it up on the internet. Read about the history of melon ballers (Tee hee. Ballers. Yes, I do laugh at jokes as if I were a 12 year old boy.) and a pepper roaster griddle.
Step Nine: Panic and realize that at some point, I turned on the stove and started to boil water. This is cause for panic for two reasons. First, all the water has boiled out and somehow, in a feat of physics that is not reproducible anywhere but in my kitchen, I've set an empty pan on fire. Secondly, I actually have no idea why I did this. This recipe doesn't call for boiling water.
Steps Ten - Twelve: Figure out how to put out the fire. Clean up. Hide destroyed pan from roommate.
Step Thirteen: Back to the recipe, vowing to pay attention this time. Ahem.
Step Fourteen: Mix what needs mixing. Spill half on floor. Clean that up.
Step Fifteen: Now, this is where it gets scary. This is the part where someone, in some universe, is laughing at me because They don't know that I shouldn't be given sharp objects. I mean, seriously, I hacked off part of a finger with a steak knife trying to trim a Christmas Tree once. Clearly, I should only be given safety scissors, but... here goes. If I'm lucky, I only lose a few fingernails. If you're lucky, I get them out of the food before you eat it. The cats know better than to be in the kitchen now. I'm left alone with sharp things and I revel in it.
Steps Sixteen - Eighteen: Get band aids. Clear up blood. Throw away veg and start over.
Step Nineteen: Finish chopping veg and preparing the meat. Now it's time for the grill. (I should note, I'm terrified of gas grills. If you'd ever been in the kitchen with me, you'd understand.) I approach with extreme caution, easily displayed by the fact that I cringe away from the grill and cover my face with my hand until I have achieved fire.
Step Twenty: Dance around it in a wild victory celebration and mock my ancient ancestors who were too stupid to come up with kerosene and matches. (What? You start your grill that way, too. Admit it!)
Step Twenty-one: Attempt to cook meat. I don't own a thermometer - at least, I don't think I do. Maybe its the really bizarre looking thing in the drawer.
Step Twenty-two: Return meat to grill since it's woefully undercooked. Vow to never be embarrassed by raw food again!
Step Twenty-three: Race inside for fire extinguisher. I wanted it cooked, not briquetted. (It's a word now.)
Step Twenty-four: Clean up and use the hidden portions left aside for just such an occasion.
Step Twenty-five: SUCCESS IS MINE, BITCHES!
I should mention that it's taken approximately 5 hours to get this far and it's now almost midnight. Luckily, if you're someone that I would be willing to cook for, you're someone that doesn't care. :)
Bon appetite!
This is my contribution to Three Weeks for Dreamwidth today. I imagine, since I now know that there are themes, that I'll post more posts like this one. Bless your hearts.
Actually, that's a lie. I'm a decent cook. Sometimes, I'm even a pretty good cook. But, I tell people that I"m a terrible cook all the time. It's a lie that I use, not solely because I am lazy and that way they cook for me instead of the other way around, but also - and primarily, might I add - for their own protection.
You see, I am what I call an interesting cook. (Interesting is a term that I often use to avoid offending. "What do you think of my new outfit/haircut/car/house?" "It's interesting! I love *some small tidbit that I can honestly say I love.*) It is always an adventure.
Allow me to elucidate. I decide, in a moment of industrious business, that I should cook at home more often. This may be for reasons involving any or a combination of the following: a) healthier cooking geared specifically towards weight loss; b) money; c) a desire to entertain people; or d) my inner masochist chimes in with "wouldn't this be a good idea?" and I stupidly believe her.
Step One: Scan cookbooks for something that I want to eat. I'm not a picky eater. I like pretty much everything but broccoli, but this doesn't make this an easier process. I'm attracted to the bizarre. This is a fact that is part of my everyday life and I've learned to live with it, but it doesn't make it any easier when what I finally decide on has about 2 dozen ingredients, half of which I've never heard of and none of which I have, except for salt.
Step Two: Make a grocery list.
Step Three: Go to the store.
Step Four: Realize I left the grocery list at home. Fake it. Now, I invariably end up with less than what I need and more of what I don't need.
Step Five: Decide to cook anyway. Surely there isn't that much difference between cinamon and nutmeg. After all, both go into cookies. And pies. I like cookies and pies. This is fine.
Step Six: Realize I forgot something critical - like the protein. (Note: I said protein because I watch enough cooking shows - let's hear it for Top Chef, whoot, whoot! - that I fancy myself a foodie. *snort*) Go back to the store and buy that, plus about half of what else I forgot. If I forget it twice, it can't possibly be that important. Right?
Step Seven: Proceed to start cooking. Completely fail to go in the order that is suggested in the cookbook. Use every possible pot/pan/bowl/utensil that I can.
Step Eight: Discover some strange utensil that I've never heard of and use that for whatever mashing/stirring/pounding that I need. Get distracted and look it up on the internet. Read about the history of melon ballers (Tee hee. Ballers. Yes, I do laugh at jokes as if I were a 12 year old boy.) and a pepper roaster griddle.
Step Nine: Panic and realize that at some point, I turned on the stove and started to boil water. This is cause for panic for two reasons. First, all the water has boiled out and somehow, in a feat of physics that is not reproducible anywhere but in my kitchen, I've set an empty pan on fire. Secondly, I actually have no idea why I did this. This recipe doesn't call for boiling water.
Steps Ten - Twelve: Figure out how to put out the fire. Clean up. Hide destroyed pan from roommate.
Step Thirteen: Back to the recipe, vowing to pay attention this time. Ahem.
Step Fourteen: Mix what needs mixing. Spill half on floor. Clean that up.
Step Fifteen: Now, this is where it gets scary. This is the part where someone, in some universe, is laughing at me because They don't know that I shouldn't be given sharp objects. I mean, seriously, I hacked off part of a finger with a steak knife trying to trim a Christmas Tree once. Clearly, I should only be given safety scissors, but... here goes. If I'm lucky, I only lose a few fingernails. If you're lucky, I get them out of the food before you eat it. The cats know better than to be in the kitchen now. I'm left alone with sharp things and I revel in it.
Steps Sixteen - Eighteen: Get band aids. Clear up blood. Throw away veg and start over.
Step Nineteen: Finish chopping veg and preparing the meat. Now it's time for the grill. (I should note, I'm terrified of gas grills. If you'd ever been in the kitchen with me, you'd understand.) I approach with extreme caution, easily displayed by the fact that I cringe away from the grill and cover my face with my hand until I have achieved fire.
Step Twenty: Dance around it in a wild victory celebration and mock my ancient ancestors who were too stupid to come up with kerosene and matches. (What? You start your grill that way, too. Admit it!)
Step Twenty-one: Attempt to cook meat. I don't own a thermometer - at least, I don't think I do. Maybe its the really bizarre looking thing in the drawer.
Step Twenty-two: Return meat to grill since it's woefully undercooked. Vow to never be embarrassed by raw food again!
Step Twenty-three: Race inside for fire extinguisher. I wanted it cooked, not briquetted. (It's a word now.)
Step Twenty-four: Clean up and use the hidden portions left aside for just such an occasion.
Step Twenty-five: SUCCESS IS MINE, BITCHES!
I should mention that it's taken approximately 5 hours to get this far and it's now almost midnight. Luckily, if you're someone that I would be willing to cook for, you're someone that doesn't care. :)
Bon appetite!
This is my contribution to Three Weeks for Dreamwidth today. I imagine, since I now know that there are themes, that I'll post more posts like this one. Bless your hearts.
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no subject
Date: 2010-04-26 11:16 pm (UTC)You don't have to light propane. XD
And I miss the propane stove sometimes.... When the power goes out, the stove works.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-26 11:30 pm (UTC)