Feed the Tree

Lately, I’ve had this primal urge to cook again, despite alarming evidence telling me that I shouldn’t. Honestly, I just don’t want to be one of those parents who has to go out to eat all the time, and, perhaps more practically, I think of those long days of dealing with an infant/newborn/toddler where going out to eat just isn’t an option because of the wiggling or screaming or whatever. And I’d like to eat then, thanks. (Do you see how Jimmy can totally have asthma here? Do you see the thinking? Surely you must. Here’s the panicked logic: I must learn to cook gourmet meals, because when I have a baby, I will never be allowed to leave the house, ever, because Jimmy has asthma, which makes him scream a lot when we leave the house, which means that if I don’t learn to cook, WE WILL STARVE. As per usual, I am assuming that I will be a single mother, also living a cardboard box that may or may not have a stove.)

Anyway, having not sufficiently learned my lesson before, what with the flaming pot roast, chicken that tastes like excrement, melting electronics, etc., I thought I’d try one of my mom’s recipes tonight – Szechwan chicken, a modified Joyce Chen recipe – and I’m a little proud to say that it didn’t turn out that bad. Well, my husband hated it, but he fully admitted that it had more to do with the fact that the recipe included ginger and sesame oil, both of which he claims to hate, even though we’ve eaten both extensively without his knowledge, but when he knows they’re there, OH MY GOD, the tragedy and woe. He’s like a child like that. If he knows it’s in there, he hates it. If it’s sneakily added, like spinach in spaghetti sauce? He’s blissfully clueless, and he chows down without a care in the world.

Sadly, our culinary tastes are night and, well, day I guess, if I might say something so completely trite, which means that if I want to cook something, it must be simple and in my opinion, flavorless. Ask him, and he’ll tell you he prefers “tasteful, unembellished meals,” whereas I like them “busy and gaudy.” You know, with beads and sequins. Sigh.

(Incidentally, Hubs doesn’t really love his name being used here, so uh, should we call him Abe? Bob? Weehawken? Work with me.)

The recipe required that I fry some hot dried peppers in oil first, which went fine, for the most part, and I managed to avoid a grease fire from smoking oil. What I did not avoid, however, was one of the hot peppers exploding, which had a very interesting effect, and by “interesting,” I mean, I basically pepper sprayed the entire downstairs. The explosion was like a shot of fire to the lungs, and there was no escape anywhere, God, it was like a fog of pepper. I had to go outside to breathe, thinking it was a one-time shot and would be clear in an instant, but in fact, no, I was wrong. It was everywhere. I started coughing. The cat started coughing. The dog started gagging.

I finished the meal from behind the collar of my shirt, my nose running all over the place, and when Abe/Bob/Whoever came downstairs, it was much of the same. He started gagging and coughing and, well, we miserably coughed our way through dinner and now can’t go downstairs, because it hurts down there, because – oh yes – there is still a cloud of pepper, and I’m quite certain my lungs are bleeding. On the upside, I have virtually zero chest congestion anymore, having horked it all up in a fit of pepper-induced mucal expulsion. But really, it tasted fine! Sort of. I mean, good enough that I’m having it for lunch tomorrow, too, although admittedly, I’m not a picky eater.

By the way, one recent success was TwoBusy’s broccoli ale soup-type thing, and dude, it’s fantastic, and I highly recommend it. Bear in mind, however, that apparently I like my meals gaudy and embellished with lace, rhinestones and maybe wearing garter belts. (Personal note to Teeb: I did not make and freeze any, as I fell ill, and thus, have no update on its freezability. Maybe this weekend.)

This cooking venture also means I am back in the habit of reading cookbooks in bed, which is completely illogical, but also makes me immeasurably happy, even if it means I’m going to bed starving and dreaming of cupcakes. Which, speaking of cupcakes, if I don’t have one soon, it’s possible I might die. To prevent certain death by cupcake deprivation, I’m making a batch this weekend from a recipe I found in (cringe) a People Magazine special report out of a Desperate Housewives cookbook. And quite honestly, the only reason I’m attempting such a daring act vs. making them from a bloody BOX, is that they are called fudge cupcakes (mmmm….FUDGE) and include a recipe for frosting that is made solely with…wait for it…heavy cream and caramel. And uh, that’s it. HEAVY CREAM AND CARAMEL. Come over, I’ll serve you cupcakes. That is, assuming that I don’t ruin them, which is highly probable. But still. Cream. Caramel. CREAM. Honestly, cream is by far my favorite food item in the universe. I like bisques, butters, tea and coffee with cream, whipped cream, whipped cream frosting, mashed potatoes with cream, ice cream, creamed corn, cream with a spoon, cream in a milkshake, I will take cream however I can get it. Just don’t tell me it’s thick, because it will be completely ruined.

In other culinary news, am I the only one who is upset by the mere sight of the Wendy’s Jalapeno Cheddar Double Melt thing? Two beef patties, jalapeno jack cheese, a layer of jalapenos and Cheez Whiz between them. Oh oh, and bacon. Of course bacon. I just don’t think that a digestive system can tolerate that level of…stimulation. I honestly don’t, and I have a sinking feeling that ERs across the country are handing out Kaopectate like candy, because that is just too unnaturally…stimulating…for normal people.

Also! Also! A cautionary tale, lest you be as dumb as I am. A while back, Leah and Simon posted about honey martinis, which sound like heaven to me, given that I love honey and-martinis and what better way to combine two great loves? Her recipe, however, calls for some obscure honey mead liqueur-type thing that can, it seems, be obtained only in a specific region of Germany. Being very far from Germany and also, creative, I thought that maybe I could make my own honey martini using diluted honey and vodka. I am here to tell you that you cannot, for honey does not chill well, and in fact, globs all over the place and actually gets quite gross and snot-like, leaving you with nothing more than snotty, chunky vodka. And though that seems like a big, fat obnoxious NO SHIT, it seems that my job in life is to try the obviously impossible and prove that indeed, it is obviously impossible. And also, perhaps I make people feel better by being just that dumb. I help in any way I can.

And finally, today in a professional context, I referred to myself as a “frequent eater-outer,” as in, I go out to eat a lot. It was only later, as in five minutes ago, that I realized how completely inappropriate and foul that statement actually is, and quite honestly, I’d like to die. Eater outer. God.

*Belly.

21 comments December 6th, 2006