I am a terrible, terrible cook.
Just terrible.
The good news is, I've officially given up, so I don't have to worry about cooking anymore. Mazel tov, Josh, you have won the battle over our kitchen — and you are a wonderful cook — but please add some new dishes to your repertoire because, since I'm no longer attempting to cook and it's all up to you now, I can't eat tomato sauce every night for the rest of my life or I'll get The Scurvy.
The road to my acceptance went thusly:
I had some time off work this week. It's gone by incredibly fast for two main reasons: I made a list a mile long of things I wanted to do that were more chore-like than fun-like, but if I completed them I'd feel I made some real progress in my life and finally — finally! — be a whole person; and I managed to do barely none of them while I sat on my couch and read magazines and thought about all the things I should be doing and watched season three of Gilmore Girls on DVD. I did buy four pairs of shoes, so that's personal growth. I am shod.
One thing on my list was cooking. My goal was to cook one meal every day. I really want to be a good cook. I really want to find it cathartic and I want it to be a creative, sensory outlet. I want to build an instinct for spices and timing and color. I want to know that, if I have a family one day and they might be, I don't know, hungry, I can whip up a tasty something for them that won't repel them from the kitchen forevermore.
That is not likely to happen.
Cooking Disaster #1: Eggs
I'm usually pretty good with eggs. I'm decent at baking, and baking involves eggs. There was nothing in my refrigerator except for a half carton of eggs, a package of Kraft fat-free shredded mozzarella, and half of a jar of Newman's Own tomato and basil pasta sauce. A normal person might feel nauseous and go to the grocery store for some actual ingredients. I am not a normal person, because to me it spelled breakfast. (Oh, come on: People put ketchup on eggs all the time. How far is spaghetti sauce? You know what? I've heard enough out of you today already.)
Basically, what followed was a horror movie of: too much melted butter that caused the egg whites (which had some yolk in them, as I was clearly not enjoying any kind of rhythm) to sort of slither and float around the pan, not really touching the bottom; an ill-executed egg-flipping that resulted in half the whites smacking onto the floor; and a pathetic rescue mission of adding one more egg — without separating yolk from whites — and just plunking the whole thing in the pan, scrambling the yolk with the rest of the mostly cooked whites. And then I added the cheese. And then I added the Newman's sauce when I plated the eggs. It was so barfily vile I wanted to apologize to both Paul Newman himself and the chickens whose eggs were wasted for this catastrophe.
Cooking Disasters #2 and #3: Chicken Tagine with Apricots; Sicilian Barbecued Chicken
These went pretty much the same way as each other. Thursday night's tagine was tasteless, the chicken was overcooked, and I didn't make enough rice. Friday night's barbecued chicken was an exercise in overcompensation: The chicken was overcooked again, but to make up for the previous night's tastelessness, I overdid every single spice and juice — including freshly squeezed lemon and orange — and it was so overwhelmingly citrusy that it was totally inedible. Also, I made enough rice to feed a medium-size country. The entire dinner (except for the rice) went into the trash. I don't think I can eat fruit for a week.
I'm disappointed. I thought that having some time off work would wake me up a bit and I could discover my inner Ina Garten and my house would suddenly become a delightful Hamptons hideaway and Jeffrey would be sitting on my couch, ready to rub my feet. But I wasn't relaxed. I was putting too much pressure on myself to get through that freakin' list. (On that note: Should you ever have time off from work when you're sticking close to home, DO NOT MAKE A TO-DO LIST. YOU WILL PSYCH YOURSELF OUT. You will waste your week thinking about onerous chores instead of seeing The Hangover. Learn from this. I would have had so much more fun if I'd woken up every day and just hung out. Bleh, Type-A.) Food-wise, maybe I should have started with something more basic. So at the moment, I'm totally discouraged and don't have any desire to find out if I'm Ina Garten. That's so sad! She has the nicest friends!
Here's what I'm good at in the way of the domestic arts:
1. I'm awesome at cleaning. I'm so OCD that you can lick off my floor right now. I vacuumed the couches.
2. Organizing papers. Another thing on my to-do list this week that I haven't done is tackle this giant cardboard box of papers on my bedroom floor. Some people fantasize about their unrequited crushes or those Twilight kids; I fantasize about getting a filing cabinet.
3. I can fold a fitted sheet.
4. I can bake an apple pie like nobody's business.
5. I'm unbelievably anal about separating recyclables. Never say I haven't done my part for our planet.
But I want to be able to cook. Gah.
Something that I did do was call Sears to come fix a bald spot on my treadmill before I slip and break my ass. I also need a lock for the thing: When we bought the treadmill six years ago, they never brought one of those thingy-things that holds the folded-up part of the treadmill so it doesn't collapse and crush your pets. Despite my efforts to encourage Sears to fix this oversight, I've had a shoelace tied from arm to arm in place of the lock since 2003. So I asked them to bring that when they bring the new runner. So I blocked out a good four hours of a morning, the guy showed up with just a toolbox, he looked at the treadmill, turned it on, and got ready to leave. I said, "Aren't you going to fix it?" He said that they have to order the parts, have them shipped to me, and then I have to make another appointment for them to come and install them.
!!!!!
OK, so even though you know what model I have and I told you what I need, you still had me block out a whole morning so you could send a guy to confirm what I've already told you, as if I'm lying and just want Sears to eat up my day for fun because what else would I do with my day you big loser who can't cook, and then I have to schlep the equipment home from work where it'll be shipped (I don't have a doorman to get big packages — dirty), and then I have to block out a whole morning again? Fuck you, Sears. I remember when we got our dishwasher, it took three appointments: one in which someone came to disconnect the old dishwasher and leave it in the middle of our kitchen, one in which someone came to deliver the new one and play with the electrical bits, and one in which someone came to take away the old dishwasher. So our old dishwasher was sitting in the middle of our kitchen for two weeks because that's how Sears operates. It's a miracle Sears can tie its shoes in the morning.
Also, while I've been home I've learned that NoraBanks spends a great deal of her day standing in the bathroom sink and meowing at the ceiling.
So: Please help me. Please share either — or both:
1. Your no-fail recipes that even someone as cheffily deficient as me can do;
2. Your favorite, most embarrassing kitchen disasters. I feel so alone.
The good news is, I've officially given up, so I don't have to worry about cooking anymore. Mazel tov, Josh, you have won the battle over our kitchen — and you are a wonderful cook — but please add some new dishes to your repertoire because, since I'm no longer attempting to cook and it's all up to you now, I can't eat tomato sauce every night for the rest of my life or I'll get The Scurvy.
The road to my acceptance went thusly:
I had some time off work this week. It's gone by incredibly fast for two main reasons: I made a list a mile long of things I wanted to do that were more chore-like than fun-like, but if I completed them I'd feel I made some real progress in my life and finally — finally! — be a whole person; and I managed to do barely none of them while I sat on my couch and read magazines and thought about all the things I should be doing and watched season three of Gilmore Girls on DVD. I did buy four pairs of shoes, so that's personal growth. I am shod.
One thing on my list was cooking. My goal was to cook one meal every day. I really want to be a good cook. I really want to find it cathartic and I want it to be a creative, sensory outlet. I want to build an instinct for spices and timing and color. I want to know that, if I have a family one day and they might be, I don't know, hungry, I can whip up a tasty something for them that won't repel them from the kitchen forevermore.
That is not likely to happen.
Cooking Disaster #1: Eggs
I'm usually pretty good with eggs. I'm decent at baking, and baking involves eggs. There was nothing in my refrigerator except for a half carton of eggs, a package of Kraft fat-free shredded mozzarella, and half of a jar of Newman's Own tomato and basil pasta sauce. A normal person might feel nauseous and go to the grocery store for some actual ingredients. I am not a normal person, because to me it spelled breakfast. (Oh, come on: People put ketchup on eggs all the time. How far is spaghetti sauce? You know what? I've heard enough out of you today already.)
Basically, what followed was a horror movie of: too much melted butter that caused the egg whites (which had some yolk in them, as I was clearly not enjoying any kind of rhythm) to sort of slither and float around the pan, not really touching the bottom; an ill-executed egg-flipping that resulted in half the whites smacking onto the floor; and a pathetic rescue mission of adding one more egg — without separating yolk from whites — and just plunking the whole thing in the pan, scrambling the yolk with the rest of the mostly cooked whites. And then I added the cheese. And then I added the Newman's sauce when I plated the eggs. It was so barfily vile I wanted to apologize to both Paul Newman himself and the chickens whose eggs were wasted for this catastrophe.
Cooking Disasters #2 and #3: Chicken Tagine with Apricots; Sicilian Barbecued Chicken
These went pretty much the same way as each other. Thursday night's tagine was tasteless, the chicken was overcooked, and I didn't make enough rice. Friday night's barbecued chicken was an exercise in overcompensation: The chicken was overcooked again, but to make up for the previous night's tastelessness, I overdid every single spice and juice — including freshly squeezed lemon and orange — and it was so overwhelmingly citrusy that it was totally inedible. Also, I made enough rice to feed a medium-size country. The entire dinner (except for the rice) went into the trash. I don't think I can eat fruit for a week.
I'm disappointed. I thought that having some time off work would wake me up a bit and I could discover my inner Ina Garten and my house would suddenly become a delightful Hamptons hideaway and Jeffrey would be sitting on my couch, ready to rub my feet. But I wasn't relaxed. I was putting too much pressure on myself to get through that freakin' list. (On that note: Should you ever have time off from work when you're sticking close to home, DO NOT MAKE A TO-DO LIST. YOU WILL PSYCH YOURSELF OUT. You will waste your week thinking about onerous chores instead of seeing The Hangover. Learn from this. I would have had so much more fun if I'd woken up every day and just hung out. Bleh, Type-A.) Food-wise, maybe I should have started with something more basic. So at the moment, I'm totally discouraged and don't have any desire to find out if I'm Ina Garten. That's so sad! She has the nicest friends!
Here's what I'm good at in the way of the domestic arts:
1. I'm awesome at cleaning. I'm so OCD that you can lick off my floor right now. I vacuumed the couches.
2. Organizing papers. Another thing on my to-do list this week that I haven't done is tackle this giant cardboard box of papers on my bedroom floor. Some people fantasize about their unrequited crushes or those Twilight kids; I fantasize about getting a filing cabinet.
3. I can fold a fitted sheet.
4. I can bake an apple pie like nobody's business.
5. I'm unbelievably anal about separating recyclables. Never say I haven't done my part for our planet.
But I want to be able to cook. Gah.
Something that I did do was call Sears to come fix a bald spot on my treadmill before I slip and break my ass. I also need a lock for the thing: When we bought the treadmill six years ago, they never brought one of those thingy-things that holds the folded-up part of the treadmill so it doesn't collapse and crush your pets. Despite my efforts to encourage Sears to fix this oversight, I've had a shoelace tied from arm to arm in place of the lock since 2003. So I asked them to bring that when they bring the new runner. So I blocked out a good four hours of a morning, the guy showed up with just a toolbox, he looked at the treadmill, turned it on, and got ready to leave. I said, "Aren't you going to fix it?" He said that they have to order the parts, have them shipped to me, and then I have to make another appointment for them to come and install them.
!!!!!
OK, so even though you know what model I have and I told you what I need, you still had me block out a whole morning so you could send a guy to confirm what I've already told you, as if I'm lying and just want Sears to eat up my day for fun because what else would I do with my day you big loser who can't cook, and then I have to schlep the equipment home from work where it'll be shipped (I don't have a doorman to get big packages — dirty), and then I have to block out a whole morning again? Fuck you, Sears. I remember when we got our dishwasher, it took three appointments: one in which someone came to disconnect the old dishwasher and leave it in the middle of our kitchen, one in which someone came to deliver the new one and play with the electrical bits, and one in which someone came to take away the old dishwasher. So our old dishwasher was sitting in the middle of our kitchen for two weeks because that's how Sears operates. It's a miracle Sears can tie its shoes in the morning.
Also, while I've been home I've learned that NoraBanks spends a great deal of her day standing in the bathroom sink and meowing at the ceiling.
So: Please help me. Please share either — or both:
1. Your no-fail recipes that even someone as cheffily deficient as me can do;
2. Your favorite, most embarrassing kitchen disasters. I feel so alone.
Labels: food, pets, pop culture, randomness
posted by Marla at 2:14 PM
9 Comments:
Marla... YOU are flawless.
Got a fish recipe? My department! Get fresh, white fillets, at least 3/4" thick from a market. In NYC you have access to the best on earth. Stealing a glance at the Monterey Bay Aquarium's sustainable seafood list for the Northeast, I'd go for local striped bass!
Here goes: Preheat oven to 325. Cut fillet into portions, place in high sided pan - thin layer of mayonaise on top of each piece - sprinkle mayo layer with Italian breadcrumbs - pour milk into pan till bottom half of fillets submerged. Cook 25 min uncovered. If thick part of fish flakes easy with fork = done. Lift out of pan onto plate, garnish minimal, parsley and/or lemon wedge.
I know, too mundane right? This is my golden ticket when under pressure to cook fish for the inlaws. Please trust me that this will bring out the subtle flavors in fresh fish, AND it's a recipe difficult to fumble. The milk and mayo making the dish resilient to over cooking. Avoid skim milk, and know that the breadcrumb layer is wide open to inprov. Yum. Love you! - WAM
Two words, much as I hate to say them: Cook's Illustrated. It's pedantic and totally humorless (is that redundant?), but the recipes are no-fail on their own. And then if you wonder why they're doing what they're doing...well, the totally boring article that goes with the recipe explains. And then there's occasionally some odd little drawing showing egg proteins getting all jiggy.
Subscribe. It comes every two months, so it's not overwhelming. Each issue will have at least one thing you're vaguely interested in cooking.
And you're heading into summer, when basically things don't really need much cooking. So you can get in the habit of grocery shopping, followed by, say, quickie salad and pasta assembly, in the next few months. And then when the cold weather hits, it won't seem like such a huge undertaking to shop _and_ put something on the stove.
And, uh, by then my cookbook should be out! Which, well...it won't solve all your problems. But it might make you laugh.
Also, I want to see you fold a fitted sheet! Do you do that at parties?
i see the nazis are back blokkin stuff done poasted on the blog but not keeping in lyne wif the politiks of this purtikular person.
Warren and Zora: THANK YOU. You guys are awesome and helpful and make something that I totally suck at seem doable. For that, you have my undying lurve. Also: Breadcrumb Layer AND Jiggy Egg Protein would both make excellent band names.
Zora: I can't wait to get your cookbook. How's this: I pick up your cookbook, and as a show of appreciation for your creating such a fine contribution to publishing and putting more deliciousness into the world, I'll fold a fitted sheet for you. It's only proper.
OK, can anyone translate the comment just above? It's amazing, right? Usually this dear reader is actually trying to say something, but I'm coming up empty here. And I haven't blocked anything in ages, so I don't get it. Any ideas?
(I meant, can anyone translate the comment above mine, the one from the Anonymous reader. Not the comment I made in the paragraph above the one in which I asked for translation. Unless the one I wrote makes no sense, in which case feel free to translate that one too. You know what? Never mind.)
Are you close personal friends with Ali G?
Ha! How awesome would that be? If I were friends with Ali G, I absolutely would have insisted on him letting me be present during the Andy Rooney Incident.
I've really got nothing to share to help you out, after all MyJosh left my engagement ring sitting next to Saran Wrap for 2 weeks and I didn't even notice. Marla, you don't have TheGift and that's o.k. That being said, my super secret (well, not so much anymore) birthday wish every year is to have Ina Garten show up on my doorstep with freshly made salmon cakes and ask me to move in her with her and Jeffrey.
I think Anonymous had spelled "the" wrong - it's really spelled "da."
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