It’s goddamn macaroni and cheese! Are you fucking kidding me!? You have seen it made since you could leave neon yellow skid marks in your diaper. You’ve krafted it since you were ten. Remember that 30 pounds you gained in high school? You know, from eating an entire box thrice a week while watching such sound television like “Survivor” and “Gilmore Girls”? Ring a bell? The point is, asshole, that you know how to make this shit,” I tell myself as I look over a coagulated blob of way overcooked noodles mashed together with Yellow No. 5 “cheese.”
So how do you fuck up a giant batch for 24 people!?!
I walk over to the picnic table and plop down the third big bowl, it glowing out the top like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.
Good. They haven’t noticed. Just play it cool.
I walk back into the kitchen, grab the salads, take a deep breath and casually rejoin the group.
…
I’ve been blessed with an absolute fear of cooking. I don’t like doing it and I really don’t see the desire many people have to create a delicious meal, besides the fact they get to enjoy the fruits of their labor. For me, that labor, and the fear of getting it horribly wrong, outweighs the spoils.
Don’t get me wrong. I love to eat good food. My mouth waters for an amazing Chicken Fettuccini Alfredo or a vegetable-heavy Stir-fry. But I long just as much for a pickle wrapped in a slice of turkey with a side of three bananas. I love good food, just not enough to make it myself. I’m afraid of screwing up a meal, wasting food and delaying the satiation of my growling belly or disappointing those unfortunate souls I’m cooking for, should I be put into that terrifying position.
Now I would love to be able to give you a specific incident, a root cause of my horror, but I can’t. I'd love to be able to attribute it to a chicken suddenly performing the Can-Can on the counter or a lobster giving a powerful and convincing, yet demonic, closing argument on why I should not place her in the boiling water. But these things have never occurred.
I asked my good friend Kate to retell the following story, one of her favorites about me, as it inspired this blahg. I in no way claim credit for her well-crafted non-fiction, but have taken the liberty to change it, to make it seem like it was written by me, so I can claim credit for her well-crafted non-fiction. Or for blahg consistency.
It all started one dark & not stormy night.
Or rather, one morning in the office.
Kate was discussing a current cooking-slump she was in. She’d been making Italian food for the past 23 years and was looking to branch outward. Our co-worker, Jen, was giving Kate advice and recipes when they stumbled on to the topic: "What is the most delicious dish you can think of?"
Jen's was super complicated involving several days of marinating and 120398109 ingredients. Kate’s was an Italian dish. While they were talking over each other about how their respective dishes were the most delicious, I walked into the room.
Excited to have me be a part of the conversation, Kate asks, "What is THE MOST DELICIOUS thing you can think of to eat?"
I contemplate the question for only a moment.
"Chicken," I say, very seriously.
"All right! Chicken!" Kate replies, thinking I was about to elaborate on a poultry dish made by the Native Americans with the help of Canadians and Chuck Berry. "Chicken cooked how?"
I look at Kate. Very seriously.
"In a pan."
There was a significant pause while she waited for more details. But I just looked at her. "Really?" Kate says.
"Maybe with a little lemon," I expound. "Maybe."
"Seriously?" Kate says. "The most delicious thing you can think of to eat, in the whole entire world, out of all the foods, anywhere, is chicken in a pan?"
"I'm a pretty simple guy.”
And I am!
You know that gloop in “The Matrix”? The Tasty-Wheat-like stuff that contains all the essential amino acids and nutrients the body needs? (A special thanks to "asspennie" for uploading that gem.) Well I would totally buy that crap because it’s quick and easy and gives me all that I need. And yes I just spent the last three minutes watching the trailer for The Matrix. Get off my goddamn case.
My repertoire of dishes is limited for two reasons. One: the fear of messing up a meal and 2: I’m lazy. I wore a uniform to school until I traded it in for a high school graduation gown. It was easy. My brain was too occupied with worries of mom finding my well-hidden porn stash to think about what to wear. I just threw on the khakis and polo, ate a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats, and drove the same way to school. Everyday. Repetition doesn’t bother me and repetition with food definitely doesn’t bother me.
And don’t get me started on my never-ending love affair with sandwiches. For an entire summer in college I ate nothing but PB & Js. My roommate thought I was going to get scurvy. To this day, whenever there is a sandwich present, my mouth becomes as giddy as a teenage boy on a field trip who is about to get to second base in the back of the bus.
I would actually thrive in a situation like, let’s say, if I were stranded on a deserted island and could only eat one meal for the rest of my days.
I’d love this scenario because my mind could focus on other more important tasks, like adding to my family of carved coconut people. Believe me, that shit would be exhausting: Next week I have a fight to the death with Randy, the douchey coconut jock. This is my chance to show off my bamboo bo staff skills, which will surely impress Erica, the cute coconut girl who won’t give me the time of day, not to mention her wealthy father, Walter, who built his coconut milk empire through grit and hard work, and who disapproves of my tattered clothing and poor hygiene.
Mmmmm. Crazy would taste so good.
But, as the opening scene reveals, my irrational fear of washing, cutting, mixing, heating, arranging and serving food is being whittled away. I am required, by job, to cook an occasional meal for 20+ people, a terrifying task that literally churns my stomach.
