How the hell did I do this?

So, I went about trying a new recipe for an upcoming barbeque. Actually, I had six new recipes to try out for this thing. Yes, six new recipes for one barbeque. Because, you see, in my world there is bored, and there is overly bored. And when I get overly bored, I tend to go overlyboard. Oh yeah–when overly bored I tend to go COMPLETELY  Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell  on your ass. That’s accurate.

And I’ve been bored with the things I’ve been cooking lately, plain and simple.

So, I stumbled across some new recipes, among them–PB&J cookies.

Ahhhhh-ahhhhhhh-ahhhhhhhhh!

What’s that you say, God? Peanut butter and jelly cookies? And also, that despite certain patriarch-influenced depictions, you’re actually a gloriously curvy, blue-singin’ woman? I KNEW IT! Well, all except the PB&J cookie thing, though. That was a new thought. A delicious, delicious new thought.

So, my first order of business before any of the rest of the recipes was to make the PB&J cookies. And then another set of experimental cookies that night, and several new dishes to follow the next day.

Right. So, I get to mixing this recipe I had found on some woman’s blog. I get all the way through mixing before I realize this recipe hasn’t called for any flour or sugar or butter or anything like that which one might find in a non-imposter cookie. No, this one is mainly peanut butter, with a dash of baking soda, brown sugar, vanilla, and egg white. And jelly, of course. Mmmkay. That doesn’t seem right, but I’m on the phone with a friend of mine at the time who’s an AWESOME baker, and she suggests I might as well put them in the oven and see whether they come out.

And so the recipe (already hearkening back to the foreboding feeling I’d experienced with a previous dessert incident–The Great Cookietastrophe of ’09) told me to put the mixture into little balls and place them on the cookie sheet before placing a divot with my thumb in the middle of each for the jelly.

Only, these things, as you’ll recall, are mostly peanut butter. You know what? You try sticking your hand in a peanut butter jar, pull it out with a handful of the stuff, and try to make shapes out of it. Yeah. Good luck with your new nickname, Grossyhands. These did not shape into a ball of any sort. They didn’t even suggest balls. They just sat there, little abominations staring at me accusatorily through the unseen eyes of their agonizing, grotesque, amorphous blob-type figures, as if to cry out, “What. Have. You. Done?!?

And then I filled their piteous craters with strawberry jelly.

I popped these sad saps into the oven, waited about 8 minutes, and then decided to check on them once they’d stopped screaming. I pulled them out, and…

Someone took a bunch of craps in my oven!!

AGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!

What the blue hell?

They are monsters!!!!! I’ve created monsters!!!!!

I mean, they are as enormous as Grand’s biscuits and a sickening light brown color. Why??? They were little petite globules with jelly in the middle! And now they look like an entire steaming tray of Mastiff feces, with traces of blood at the center of them. Honestly, if I ever saw this come out of a Mastiff, I would have the heart to put the dear creature out of its misery.

THIS IS NOT OKAY.

What the hell went wrong? I didn’t miss any steps or ingredients. I checked the blog to look at her picture of the finished product.

Her cookies:

“SCREWWWW YOUUUUU,” I yell at the image on the screen. My darling male companion now ran into the kitchen for the second time in ten minutes, thinking I had undergone some awful culinary injury due to my continued Tourette’s-like verbosity.

I take the offensive, little piles off the stove and set them in my dining room to cool while I calmly try to figure out my next move. I send a picture of them to my friend who had earlier said to just pop them in the oven and see–my friend who then proceeds to laugh so hard she almost has to pull over, and immediately tells me she’s coming right over because she just has to see them in person.

When I go back to the dining room table to peer at them again, once more they have decided to astonish me and alter their disgustingness into a totally different image of bleghh.

Mmm. Lunch?

Now they have completely flattened, as if someone had stopped pumping air into them and had forgotten to put the cap back on the hole, and the jelly has gotten, well…frothy. Frothy.

At this point, figuring “What the hell,” I cut a cookie-like thing out of the solid cookie sheet hulking mass and taste it. I mean, it slops partly onto my spatula and partly back onto the pan like ingredients that desperately miss flour, but the taste? Actually, quite brilliant! Taste just like peanut butter and jelly. And you know what? If I had just placed it between two slices of bread rather than deciding to expose it to 8 minutes of 350-degree heat blast, it might have been an acceptable thing to put in my mouth.

I ended up scooping up the whole thing–both already baked and still “dough”–with a giant spoon and dumping it into a great, big bowl, which I then put a fork in and handed to my darling male companion. Who, of course, was only too happy to eat it.

And you know what? I do believe he rather liked it.

And that is my epic cookie fail for this year.

For maximum effect, play this while scrolling down…slowly.

da daaaaaaaaaaaaaa…

da daaaaaaaaaaaa….

DA DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA…


DA DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM


As promised, I did get my egg-dying episode documented. It’s with film, not a digital camera, so the quality promises to be what we’ll go ahead and call “retro.” Voila.

Darling male companion, painting away

Me, attempting great art

 

I assume this happened since we were attempting to make deviled eggs for the first time. And, to be fair, his is a picture of a witch (which is conveniently glared out).

 

Masterpiece!!!

Also, desecrating Easter lamb cake. A time-honored tradition in my family.

Do I tell you, sir, that I hid an egg on your chair before you sat down? Nah. I’ll let that be my little secret. With the egg. And the chair.

Voila l’oeuvres! That is all for now.

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It was a hell of an Easter weekend for me, I have to say. For various reasons. I got to have an MRI. That was fun. I got radioactive goo injected into my veins during it; perhaps this is why I’ve pissed myself every time I’ve gotten a cell phone call or sat too close to the TV in the last two days? Huh. Dunno. Mental note to look into that.

And if you’ve never had this whole MRI process done, do try. It’s thrilling. They wrap you in thin white blankets up to your neck like a sort of sterile mummy and keep you as cold as possible, I assume because the unholy giant mouth machine into which they’re feeding you prefers the kind of sub-zero room temperatures featured in heart-warming classics like Alive. Then they give you earplugs and put enough sound-muffling cloth around your head to keep out the worst of the clamoring bedlam noise, which I find akin to an angry mob banging on the machine with wrenches and sledgehammers. And they bury you into the unholy giant mouth machine up to around your hands, with the sides slightly too snug for your arms on either side and the top a couple inches from your face. Taphophobics everywhere, pop your Xanax—this is your coffin for the next hour. And then they tell you they’re going to begin (which sounds like a command from one of Charlie Brown’s teachers), and here descends the angry mob banging on the machine with wrenches and sledgehammers. Or so I figure. Then they pull you out of the unholy mouth coffin machine after you’ve contemplated your own death for 45 minutes, inject you with the radioactive goo—and I’m a notorious fainting, vomiting needle-phobe, so this is extra special—and shove you back into the machine for another 15 minutes. This is to let your brain cook a little longer. Finally, you get out and put the metal jewelry back in your body. You look at the nurse warily when she says, “Drink lots of water the next few days to…uh…flush that stuff out of your system quickly,” and check your day planner just to see if it is, in fact, Phobia Day, and you had simply forgotten. Sign up today! See what you’re made of.

…No, literally, you get to look at what your brain is made of.

But mostly, it was noteworthy because I got to dye and paint gorgeous, sexy, wonderful Easter eggs with my darling gentleman companion. And then make deviled eggs for the first time. Bedeviled eggs. Well, I guess my sister made part of them. Or most of them. But I boiled the eggs, damn it, and I’m pretty sure I was the one who bedeviled them.

Deviled eggs. This needs a more dramatic name. Hmm. Sataniceggs? Lucifeggs? Beelzebeggs? All superior words. While my sister was I was working on making the deviled eggs, I got to wondering why they’re called that. They seem harmless enough, and eating one has never whipped me into a hedonistic, clothes-ripping-off, sexually depraved, demonic and shrieking frenzy. Not like eating apples…

Apparently it’s a cooking term that dates back centuries, and it merely refers to the eggs having a little spice to them. I guess spice = hot = devil, and so these eggs with spice were deviled eggs (or feel free to term them divinity eggs now, if you wish to bring them to a church picnic or something).

Interesting. Well. Had I known that it was simply about spice, I wouldn’t have invoked the dark forces into the sweet relish. Really, this should be a special note in the recipe directions. I mean, sorry, relatives, for that unpleasant evil egg experience. Honestly, it would have been fine if someone had remembered to get the salt blessed this year. So, I blame you guys.

Tangent. Back on track now. So this whole eggy process was a totally fun one. The thing is, I haven’t dyed eggs in years, so it was really fucking lovely. My darling gentleman companion and I had about 15 eggs to play with, and we dyed, and sponge-painted, and then hand-painted egg after glorious egg. This was such a charming good time, I might just coax him into doing it every weekend. We’ll have cholesterol problems that could take down horses or other large, sweaty beasts, but we’ll have created 52 batches of perfect, gleefully temporary edible art. Good plan.

By the by, I will post pictures as soon as I get them developed, probably this week. See, back in the day, people used to use cameras that were run on this thin, shiny stuff called film. You could go to the store and buy a cardboard-covered camera with film in it, and take pictures. Then you’d wait for your pictures to come out of a machine all overexposed and crappy, and you’d gladly pay too much for them. Being the antique-lover, I used one such product to capture our magical Beelzebegg day, so I have to wait for them to be ready to put online. Next post. Promise.

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Last night I accompanied two friends to a $20 All-You-Can-Eat sushi dinner, and let me tell you. If you’ve never tried it, go. Do it. It’s like freaking endurance training. Remember in Fight Club when Tyler says, “How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?” Yeah. How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight with your own body?

When you go to All-You-Can-Eat sushi, you pay the flat fee and start ordering delectable-sounding menu items, Boston roll after futo roll after spider roll. You can order as many as you want at the same time, and that includes appetizers like tempura and edamame. The thing is, so you’re not just ordering the whole menu and letting a bunch go to waste as soon as you satisfy your craving (since that shit costs dollas, son), you pay extra money for every additional piece you leave on your plate. Some restaurants are as costly as $5 per remaining piece. Ouch. So you eat the whole damn thing. And if you cannot, you desperately try to lure other people at your table away from their own Japanese-cuisine cross to bear in order to help you finish off the rest of your fish, rice, and seaweed little bundles of joy.

If you are a sushi junkie like I am—the kind of person who would put a dragon roll directly into your veins if you could figure out a way to liquefy it on a spoon—you cannot resist the urge to use a sweet maki deal like this to figure out the limit of your physical tolerance. And oh god—it is eye-opening. You go in daring to find out what you’re made of, and you stagger out highly suspecting you’re now at least partially made of Japanese delicacies.

I can report that I survived. I can report that it was uncomfortable after two Sapporo’s and the second roll, and highly uncomfortable after I pushed beyond the third roll. The fourth roll was past the point of good-reasoning and might have been easier to take if I had removed a vital organ to make some room. Note for next time.

But I can say this—totally worth it. When I die, skimp on the fancy coffin and cover my grave with sushi. Please, and thank you.

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During my past three years of pocket-draining adventures here in Chicago, and also likely due to our city’s charmingly constant atmospheric conditional variances (often inclement, which has frequently left me indoors to cook for myself rather than going out and braving the weather), I made the very fortunate discovery that being fantastically financially unstable will lead to many wonderful food and drink items being created out of necessity. Yes, my lovingly and laboriously concocted feasts are the veritable trash fires of the gourmet world—they do the job, they have unusual smells, and they often contain resourceful (and/or harmful) materials. And to the forcedly thrifty, they are glorious things. Objectively glorious. I mean, who could argue?

Cooking with only the odd ingredients I’ve had left in my fridge and cabinets until pay day (see my previous blog post, The Peter Pancake Syndrome, for an example of past ingredient resourcefulness), I’ve managed to pioneer for myself a whole new, exciting culinary experience using the nourishing and satisfying value of what I affectionately call “hobo meals.” True, it’s probably not technically politically correct, but anyone else who’s ever attempted la vie en rose with very limited fundage—surely you get me here, darlings.

Hobo meals: my gastronomical opus (and please allow me my moment of grandeur, here). Much like penning the elusive Great American Novel, I have perfected the thing I will leave behind as my major worldly contribution after I perish, nourishing all free-thinkers who stumble across it (thank you; that felt good).


And so, for years the kitchenette in each of my adorably dim and small (short, but not too big around) apartment hovels became a delightful bistro for … oh … remarkable originality, culinary … uh … improbability, character-building digestional challenges … and, well, satisfying solitary dining. “What the hell? You don’t want to join me for hobo Dijon tuna rice surprise? Brilliant. Leftovers! This is good for half a week’s meals. A week, actually, if I wish to test the endurance of my stomach and immune system to handle potential E. coli threats. Come on, white blood cells. Don’t crap out on me, now.”

Get it? No? Fine.

Necessity is indeed the mother of invention, as Plato quite rightly noted. My resulting cartes du jour of original, sometimes absurdly convoluted, sometimes craftily minimalist items were always an avant-garde smorgasbord of condiments. And garnishes, like sandwich pickles, canned olives, or store-bought guacamole. Or cans of non-perishables, like cans and cans and cans of tuna, condensed soups, anything Franco-American® or Chef Boyardee® (Saint Boyardee, really), or beans. And carbs that take a long time to fuzz up, like crackers. Oh, and food substitutions that were based solely on color: “No sour cream left. Damn and piss. …Hmm. But mayhap ranch dressing works.” “This calls for milk … unless there is no milk. Mayo, it is!” “Kraft macaroni and cheese. Well, last week I used the cheese powder packet for my cheese-flavored condensed mushroom soup Cornflake bake on graham crackers. So … macaroni and mustard?”

The results were innovative and not entirely unpalatable. Frequently. And despite the hearty richness of the description of these meals, my dear readers, they can be crafted for breakfast and lunch, too! Mustard sandwiches are delicious for before you run out of bread. And you can draw faces on them with the mustard. Who doesn’t want to be smiled at by something they’re about to eat? It just kind of makes my day. Or try a sliced turkey pepperoni and sun-dried tomato hummus sandwich. Treat yourself to a fancy lunch in and toast it. Or crack a fried egg on top of it. Or both! And careful not to lose yourself in the positively sinful indulgence of it all.

Now, note this, because it is tremendously profound: bacon is cheap and can be added to anything. Write that down, write that down.

Or revel in the simple brilliance of cooking up all the vegetables you have left —peppers, onions, tomatoes, Shiitake mushrooms, water chestnuts, sprouts, etc.— in any oil or non-sticky stuff you have at your disposal and some soy sauce packets from the Chinese place down the street. Add Tabasco® for a delectable kick. Want chicken with it but don’t have meat? Spice it up with chicken seasoning. Or chop up hot dogs and cook them up along with it. Same thing, really. I mean, who honestly knows what goes in hot dogs? Might as well be chicken. And then serve up this masterpiece delicately on a lettuce wrap. Put a baked potato on the side for a luxurious “full” feeling. Ketchup works beautifully on a potato when you’re out of butter, like putting ketchup on French fries… only fancy. *wink*

And then there are the hobo pastas. These work well for entertaining. Throw on a little Sinatra, light some candles, and prepare a group of like-minded individuals for some culinary sparkle. To begin with, tomato soup or medium salsa are practically the same thing as marinara, and don’t you let them tell you any different. Actually—pro tip: any condensed soup can go on pastas. And if you have any cheeses whatsoever—especially a shaker of grated Parmesan—that goes in there, too. As much as fucking possible.With enough cheese on it, people will eat a leather handbag.

Ooo. Hadn’t considered my handbags yet… Hmm.

Oh, but my favorite is probably hobo rice. Yes, gentle readers (both of you). My darling epicurean thrill-seekers, positively whatever you have in your pantry can go on hobo rice, and therein lies its genius. Pancakes, mustard, hamburger pickles—it’s all gustatory gold. Because, you know. Gold tastes awesome.

Additionally, absolutely anything goes on bread or a wrap, if you have them. And if your meal is too much of a liquid to put it on bread—like soup—never fear! Bulk it up with some crackers until it’s a solid. Now you have something that will stick with you for 12 hours. And on your hips for the rest of your life. Now that’s staying power!

Lastly, hobo drinks can even be beneficial to your health. Don’t have mixers on hand to hide the taste of your bottom-shelf liquors? Search your medicine cabinet for other flavored delights that mix well. For example, I sometimes give whiskey a boost by treating myself to a Theraflu®-toddy (note: actually very much not recommended by the American Medical Association, or my liver). But do try an Airborn® cocktail (with vodka). Who’s getting that office virus? Not you, sir. Not you. Or a Special K® pink lemonade-flavored protein mix cocktail (with gin or vodka). And you’ve got your nutrients for the entire day, my loves. Woo-hoo! Feel the health trashing about in your kidneys.

As an epilogue, I’ve since moved out of my Chicago apartment and back to my parents’ house for a bit (amazingly not due to financial reasons), where there is Oh My God always crazy amounts of food at my disposal to make more traditional meals. Still, it’s hard to break the habit. Beware that once you start out on your frugal meal-innovation experience, it is difficult to ever look at ingredients the same way. Living at my folks’ place, I still occasionally make hobo foods. And sometimes, when no one’s looking… I indulge my lusty thirst for the nostalgic taste of Airborn® cocktails.

At least I never ate a shoe.

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