Alright, what was in the thing I was going to cook yesterday? Tree nuts? Gluten? No, that would end up killing too many people. Why is everyone allergic to nuts and gluten all of a sudden? Time was, that’s all we would get for Christmas. Now, if aliens invade Earth, all they have to do is pepper the major landmasses with flour and peanuts, and this world becomes theirs. But not me. I’ll gladly eat the free peanuts falling from the sky. I’ll find a use for the flour. In the post-apocalyptic world, perhaps it will become a form of currency. I’ll invent some sort of vacuum device to suck all that grain dust from the lungs of the deceased, using peanut energy to propel me from body to body, siphoning the respiratory gold that lies within the airsac of each corpse. The remaining humans, those who haven’t swollen to death or sworn allegiance to the new alien government, will gladly follow my lead. But I won’t want to be their leader, and I won’t share the flour I have hoarded. So they’ll all disperse and kill each other off. Then it’s just me versus the otherworldly troika regime of Blandox 3000, Drunvalo 458,739,457, and The Everlasting Fluff, (Fluff has a different meaning on Ungerstudt, the oddly German-sounding planet these aliens hail from) the fate of Earth floating in the balance.
Maybe the recipe had alien poison in it?
Now that I mention it, I think the recipe actually did have something to do with both nuts and gluten: perhaps I do desire a dash to power after all, maybe a yearning for Armageddon. I don’t know.
While prepping for this post, I did find a ripped piece of paper, containing what I believe to be half of the recipe, with the words ‘pollen’ and ‘bee stings’ written on it. Beneath that it reads ‘marinate in cat hair and lactose juice.’ Hmmm. The missing half of that paper probably lists all the required seasonings, because what I have in front of me does not sound like it would please the palate.
Looks like I shot my wad early again. No recipe today. Sorry.
The pages of culinary history are stained with the lipid-laden blood of creators, the greasy footprints of thieves, and the spatterings of rich, creamy sauces. The recipes that leap out of the past from those pages, especially the early ones, were made with food prepared by unwashed hands, saturated in sweat, earwax, and bedazzled with odd meat choices like squirrel, marmot, bear genitalia, to be consumed by whoever would take it. And people were gross enough to take anything back then.
As food evolved over time, every new generation of innovators stood on the shoulders of the one preceding it. This is where we get our ‘regional’ favorites, which then breed and morph into sundry ‘fusion’ dishes, and so on. Then along comes a guy who would throw the rulebook out the window, if he had ever bothered to pick it up, a culinary ronin roaming the robust, zesty landscape, a guy who ingested a large amount of caffeine after donating plasma who feels like too manythoughts arehittinghisbrain and can’t getthem outfastenough so he’s startingtoramble and forgetwhat wherethiswholethingwasheaded.
The original recipe escapes me now. I feel sweaty. I’ll try next week, go buy a Hamburger Helper and follow the instructions on the box for the time being. I need a nap.
I’ve been thinking of names for cats.
The second is reserved for more of a suave, sleek tomcat. I’d call him Bruce Mandick.
Had Rocco been hit by the same car, the thing would have crumpled around him. The mechanic would be flummoxed as to how the front end had obtained a Rocco Hamfist-shaped hole in it. Bruce Mandick would then walk in, push the grease-monkey aside, and fix the car for him.
That’s how much a name matters.
Rocco and Bruce would impregnate many cats. Their offspring would have names like Zenobia Trident. Gullveig Tetrahedron. Lucretia The Terrible. They would rule all the land.
So, if you think you’ve got a manlier name for a cat, or believe your feline could out-impregnate these two, by all means, let me know.
I just went through plasmapheresis. Somebody owes me big time. I technically own another human’s life force now. Big responsibility there. The only trouble is, with all the bureaucratic buffoonery and red tape down at the donation center, they won’t even let you behind the counter to see where something that used to be in your body is going to be shipped, let alone who they’re going to put it into.
Is anybody reading this a detective? I want to hunt down whoever has my plasma. But not in a mean way. All I want is a sincere thanks, and for them to buy me a sandwich every week for the rest of their life. Pretty reasonable, because I know I could demand much more than that.
I could have people, pumped up to their eyelids with my plasma, washing my car, fetching my groceries, naming their children after me. Children that have a piece of me in their veins. But I don’t think of stuff like that.
I am however, in the preliminary stages of having my testicles, kidneys, liver, and even unused parts of my brain tested. In the world of medicine, sick people are so grateful to receive these body parts that donating them guarantees you a rent free existence on Easy Street at least until you are old, and then I think the government pays for you to stay alive after that.
The book in front of me at this moment is titled Nothing In This Book Is True, But It’s Exactly How Things Are. It’s by Bob Frissell. Interesting guy.
So, what I have done is compiled a few of Mr. F’s claims, beliefs, opinions, whatever you would like to call them, and plugged them into the poll below. I have entered one of my own into the mix. Simply click on the one you think is mine.
“Controlling the mind is a more effective means of social control than punishing the body.” —Michel Foucault
I’ve come up with a way to batter both someone’s mind and body.
Here’s a ‘your daddy’ joke I wrote.
“Your daddy’s so dumb he tells ‘your momma’ jokes. To you.”
That is just rich.
Unless, of course, you plan on telling it to an individual who hails from a dysfunctional home, and the father really does treat the woman whom he impregnated with disrespect. So a word of caution: before presenting this humdinger to some ragamuffin you really think has it coming, take a moment to brush up on that person’s background. Nothing too personal, just ask what the situation was like at home growing up, were they rich, is either parent in prison, etc. Then quickly size up your mark. Is this a person that can take a joke? Does he or she have a violent temper? If they sat on you, would it hurt?
It would be wise to take a few basic martial arts courses beforehand. Also wear something hard around your neck, as the trachea is becoming one of the more trendy spots to blast in an attack. But make sure the thing protecting your neck matches your flesh, so people think that it’s uncovered, and when they punch it, then, well, let’s just say you’ll be able to use this next joke on them:
“Your daddy’s so dumb he raised a person who can’t even tell when another person is wearing a skin-camouflaged neck protecting device.”
You can probably lay off the jokes at this point, having provided both psychological and physical damage to the loser with the stupid dad. Go get lunch. You earned it.
Hey everyone, listen up: I genuinely enjoy sautéing mushrooms. The activity is exciting to me. I could do it for 3-5 hours a day if I really wanted to. Late last night, I even brought up the ‘General Settings’ page on WordPress, clicked into the ‘Site Title’ bar, and typed The Mushroom Sautéing Blog, erased it, then punched in The #1 Blog For Everything Involving Sautéing Mushrooms.
I paused there.
Then I thought, ‘Wait, I recently sautéed some other vegetable, which I can’t quite think of right now, and that was also enjoyable. Not as fun as mushrooms, though.’
This opened up a veritable Pandora’s Box of sauté-related issues for me—if I enjoy sautéing mushrooms this much, then there must exist a vast amount of other items that I would also enjoy dousing in olive/soybean/peanut oil—the strain of oil to be used as sautéing agent could be a topic for another post—and poking around on a hot surface as caramelization occurs.
I can tell right now that I would enjoy garlic.
Carrots too, though probably not as much as garlic.
Why stop at vegetables? Beef…..chicken….the pop of meat in a skillet is gratifying, no matter what delicious animal it comes from.
That’s all I’ve got.
It’s onions that I really enjoy sautéing, not mushrooms. Mushrooms are my second favorite.