Unsociable Steak and Bad Breath Bread

Sometimes... no, most of the time, I just can't stand to be around people. Honestly, they make me fucking crazy. This doesn't really affect my every day life until it comes time to work, answer the phone, or otherwise function in the real world. Working at The Squeal of Delight Rib Shack puts me into contact with people just a little too much and sometimes I find myself craving, or even needing some time alone. Some Angry Chef Time...

Thinking about this brings up some things that I can't stand about people. In no specific order...

1. I hate it when people smile for no reason. When I'm driving along and see some pedestrian walking down the sidewalk with a big grin on their big, stupid face I almost want to veer the car off the road and take them out.

2. I hate people who always think they're right, because usually they're dead wrong.

3. I hate people who always go along with the crowd. When I find myself thinking like everyone else, I think again.

4. I hate people who use occurring events to justify unconscionable actions. Gangs of idiots attacking a fan of the opposing team, drivers who mow down pedestrians because they feel they have the right of way, and politicians running for office who pay money to ruin someone's reputation all fall into this category.

5. People who don't realize there are other people in this world that have to put up with them. This is, mostly, everybody besides me.

When I'm in moods like this, nothing helps except beer, TV and cooking. So with The Femme Nikita on the tube and a case of Milwaukee's Best Ice freshly cracked, I start to cook this week's dish.

What You Need To Get:

1 lb. Sirloin Steak

1 clove garlic (Garlic comes in white bulbs with multiple cloves. Steal one, whole bulb and save the rest for another time)

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon pepper (Use more if you're not a jackass)

1/2 teaspoon onion powder

1/3 cup flour

First, I tear or cut one the sections of the garlic bulb away from the rest. This is one "clove" of garlic. I peel off all the papery skin and cut the bitch in half so I have two chunks of smooth garlic with raw ends. Rub those raw ends all over your steak. Don't be shy. If you feel like you're not doing this step right try to remember that they could train ferrets to do this and you are a complete moron. Stop what you're doing, do not pass Go, get the hell out of the kitchen and find the phone number of your local Jimmy Johns.

Once the steak smells a little garlicky, I take the salt, pepper, and onion powder and rub it into the steak. Then, I coat the steak with the flour and let it sit a second.

The secret to making a good, pan-fried steak is to have the pan screaming hot when the steak hits it. Warm it up over high heat with some veggie or olive oil until you can feel the heat coming off the pan or when a drop of water spits when it hits it. The pan should resemble your personality after a bad day at work.

When you drop the steak into the pan you should hear a long hiss like a super-pissed off devil. The longer the hiss, the better you've done. Leave it on the pan in one place for about five minutes. DON'T FUCKING TOUCH IT. Leaving the meat sit will create a nice crust of char that you'll appreciate later. After five minutes, flip the steak and sear the other side.

In the mean time, start working on part two...

What You Need To Get:

One stick of butter

2 teaspoons minced garlic (Cut another clove into tiny pieces)

1 1/2 Tablespoons parsley

1 teaspoon thyme

Salt and pepper (to taste... so, a lot)

One loaf French or Italian bread (sandwich shops GIVE THIS STUFF AWAY at closing time)

Aluminum foil

This one is almost too easy. Mix together the butter, garlic and spices so that you're left, basically, with flavored butter.

Then take the loaf of bread and slice it like you would any ordinary bread EXCEPT, and here's the only tricky part, DO NOT slice it all the way to the bottom of the loaf. You should wind up with a loaf of bread that sort of reminds you of a slinky. It is not OK to try to make your loaf of bread go down the stairs of your apartment building.

Spread about a spoon's worth of the flavored butter into each slice that you've made on the loaf, and press it back together.

Then, put the bread in a pan, cover it with the foil (the shiny side should be on the inside, genius)and bake it at 375 degrees for about 10 minutes.

At this point you should have a steak that looks like its been through hell and a loaf of bread that smells great but looks like it's oozing pus. Trust me, they both taste delicious.

I take a long swig of beer and listen to the sounds of tires squealing, bass thumping and people screaming "Woot, Woot" outside my window. I'm glad I have this time to enjoy by myself. The world should be glad it doesn't have to enjoy my company. The Femme Nikita seems to not enjoy either of us...

My Favorite Team's Balls

It's barely September and already it's starting to get a little chilly here in the Angry Chef neighborhood. It seems like every year that bitch, Mother Nature, makes summer just a little bit shorter. In some ways this is a good thing: I'm not sweating through my shirts at work anymore, I don't have to smell the unidentified animals my redneck neighbors grill, more TV is on the way, and, most important, one of my favorite sports, football, begins.
Please, please don't start to think I'm talking about soccer. The World Cup is great every four years but that's my limit. I'm talking smash mouth, hard nosed, 1st and ten, down and dirty FOOTBALL (with helmets, for non-scrimmage games). There are few substitutes.
First of all, let's review the teams you can not possibly cheer for and still enjoy this site. Real chefs do not like the Dallas Cowboys or the Minnesota Vikings. Real chefs believe that you should not call yourself a football team if your cheerleaders are more of an attraction then the game you play is. Real chefs believe that you should not call yourself a football team if your mascot has ponytails and your playing field is named after a mall (honestly Vikings, what was your second choice, "Victoria's Secret Dome"?). If you are a fan of either of these two teams you should log out right the fuck now and go check out The Justin Beiber homepage. Join a wiffleball league and have someone bruise you to death with one of the bats.
OK, now that all the rejects have been weeded out, we can get on to serious football appreciation. I won't tell you who the Angry Chef's favorite team is, because I believe in choice. I may hand you a box of Kleenex if you're a Browns fan. I may wonder if football is really the sport you're interested in if you're a Dolphin's fan. I will roll up my windows and lock my doors if you're a Raiders fan. And I will ask you how my buddy, Ditka, is nowadays if you're a Bears fan. Because hey, that's choice. I choose to back a team that is all about getting the sack. Enjoys a nice rack. Breaks the opponents back. Is constantly on the attack. Etc...
So just before the Sunday game this week, I call up my sous-Angry chef, Tulip, and tell her to get her ass over here. And we start on the first of many football munchies.
What You Need To Get
3 Tablespoons of butter
Half a Cup water
Pinch of salt
3/4ths of a Cup flour (ask any elderly neighbor)
3 eggs
3/4ths of a Cup grated Gruyere, Swiss, or Cheddar cheese (These rank from classiest, to true fan, to get your ass off the couch on the rating scale. I use a combo of all three.)
1 lb. celery root (you won't be able to find this if you're shopping at your local Quickie Mart)
1 lemon
1/4th of a Cup mayonnaise
2 Tablespoons mustard
2 Tablespoons water
Salt and pepper (to taste, so a lot)
We start with the cheeseballs, or, since I learned this in fucking France, the "choquettes". First, I cut the butter into little bits and throw it in a pan with the half cup of water and the pinch of salt. I let this come to a melty boil.
In the meantime, my sous-Angry chef, Tulip has sprayed a baking sheet with some Pam and sprinkled it with a light coating of flour. This will be the surface that the balls will bake on. Kind of like the tundra of your favorite teams stadium.
I take the pan off the heat before it really gets going and slowly stir in the flour with either a fork or a whisk. GO SLOW. You don't want to fuck this part up. Make sure there aren't any lumps or chunks of unidentifiable shit in it. When it's all mixed in, I put the pan back on a low, low, heat.
Once again, while constantly stirring, I SLOWLY add in the eggs and the cheese. If you do this right, you'll soon get a a thick, moldable (is that a word?) dough.
My sous-Angry chef, Tulip, uses a spoon to scoop out walnut sized hunks of the dough onto the baking sheet, while I jokingly suggest that this may be all the action she sees this month. I don't know why, but I'm almost in a good mood. She does not appreciate this and begins to suggest other things she could do with the spoon. So the mood passes.
When we have about 16 balls, and we're out of dough, we stick them in a 400 degree oven for about 25 minutes. After that, we'll turn off the oven, open it up, and let the balls cool down slightly inside. We will probably make more at halftime.
While the balls are cooking, I move on to step two of our football munchies. I start with the celery root (it looks like a potato that no one asked to the prom), peeling it and then grating the whole thing into a bowl. Watch your hands, real chefs only bloody their knuckles on telemarketers and people who sing about "five dollar foot longs" at Subway.
Then, my sous-Angry chef, Tulip, takes the lemon, slices it in half and squeezes the juice into the bowl with the celery root. She still seems angry, but maybe she's just relaxed around me.
After that it's a snap. We take what's left, the mayo, mustard, water, salt and pepper and add it to the mix and stir. And there you have it. A great dip for crackers and veggies and deep fried anything. I like Scoops and Triscuits. My sous-Angry chef, Tulip, likes jalapeno poppers and donuts. To each his own. It's all about choice.
We sit down with our "choquettes" and dip and admire their regal colors. Then, we watch our team beat the crap out of any pretenders that dare to take them on. There might be some sort of metaphor here, but I'm too into the game to figure it out...

Murder Me Meatloaf

Christ, I've been working a lot of hours. These last few weeks have been a confused haze of dreaming, butchering, drinking, and Big Brother episodes. That's right, I watch it. I would challenge you to find something better for me to watch on TV, but that would mean I'd have to divert my attention away from America's homemade "Truman Show" and on to your boring ass. Anyways, I haven't had any time to keep up with my e-mails or phone messages and I feel like I've missed almost all of my summer. Plus, people are getting pissed.

My Angry sous- chef, Tulip, left me a message yesterday that seemed just a little bit less friendly then her usual upbeat and carefree calls. "I know you're there, damn it," she began (I WAS home, but I didn't want to miss the toll-free number to get those interchangeable Tupperware things that you can store anything in). "Listen. You owe me beer and a dinner from those aprons I lent you. Don't think I'm gonna fucking forget. Plus, YOUR stupid fans are sending mail to my shit now, asking for more of YOUR stupid recipes. Some of them think you're DEAD. Me, I can only hope. AND, they're asking how they can get to prove they're a better cook then you. I can't take this shit anymore. Call me when you get up, asshole."

I'm no expert on the female psyche, but it sounded like my sous- Angry chef, Tulip, was a bit annoyed. So during commercials after work the other night, and between sips of Blatz, I got myself showered, cleaned up the apartment, and warmed up the stove.

I called up my sous -Angry chef, Tulip, and told her to get her ass over here.

She told me to fuck off. So I went over to her place instead.

What You Need To Get:

1 lb. ground chuck (It has to be chuck. Don't fuck this up.)

Half a Cup Ketchup (Easily free at your local McDonalds)

1 Egg

1 Cup Oyster Crackers

Quarter Cup Milk (Doesn't matter what kind. OK... NOT chocolate. And if you drink "skim", you're trying too hard.)

Half an onion

Half a green pepper

Salt and pepper

2 Cloves Garlic (Use two Tablespoons of the bottled, minced stuff)

Oregano

Bacon

I was right. Tulip was not very happy with me. After she slammed the door in my face, I let myself in and proceeded to the kitchen while she sat in her Lazyboy watching "So You Think You Can Dance". I was gonna tell her what I thought of that show, but then figured that the criticism coming from the rest of literate America must be hard to ignore.

Anyways, I had a gourmet feast planned.... wait for it...meatloaf. Yes, I know what you're thinking. Perhaps, you may say, the Angry Chef is losing it. Maybe, you're thinking meatloaf sucks. Perhaps you're disappointed that I haven't taken to any French or Italian dishes lately. Here's what I'm thinking: You're all fucking Donkeys (thank you Gordon Ramsey).

Meatloaf is great, storeable, easy to make, and versatile. Its a go- to recipe that everyone will think you put a lot of work in to. Plus, it's hard to fuck up. If you really don't like meatloaf you should log off this site and go back to the latest crossword puzzle at "Highlights: For Kids". You need more training.

I start by basically dumping all the ingredients, except for the bacon, into a big bowl. There's only a little preparation for this. I smash the oyster crackers to bits with a rolling pin, or hammer, or heavy pan (this part is fun, even though I am rudely told to shut up. Not by my sous-Angry chef Tulip, but by one of her neighbors.). I dice the green pepper and onion. And I use my best judgement on how much of the salt, pepper and oregano to use. About a palmful or two of each.

This is where things got weird. My sous- Angry chef Tulip stomped into the kitchen to see what I was doing and suddenly I heard the song "Unchained Melodies" playing. She thrust her hands into the ingredient mix bowl and began mixing everything into a ball as the two tenors sang something incomprehensible about "time goes by... so slowly". She looked like she was thinking about something completely different, I think she did anayway, as she molded the meat into this oddly, phallic shape. It was all really confusing. It was almost like some sort of weird ghost of the Righteous Brothers had entered the room. But after that, me and my sous-Angry chef, Tulip, were cool. So, I blew it off.

Anyways, Tulip formed the mix into a loaf and put it on a rimmed, greased baking sheet. I put four bacon strips over the top of the loaf. Bacon is like pepper, you can't use too much, so feel free to use more if you like.

I set it in the oven at 350 degrees and let it alone for about 45 minutes while we heckled "Dateline" and some old Whoopi Goldberg movie ("Jumpin' Jack Off" or something). Then I spread some extra ketchup over the top of the loaf and let it cook about another 10 minutes. Done. It was good for dinner last night and cold sandwiches today.

Tomorrow, I have to look at my e-mail. My sous- Angry chef Tulip tells me somebody's been making death threats. I'm thinking they'll never have time to catch up with me...

The Bitch Is Back Boats

There are very few people that can make the Angry Chef nervous. I associate with criminals. Scoff at politicians. Spit on celebrities (except the cute newscaster on NBC local), and shove authority figures out of my way. In fact, generally, the only way to get any sort of emotional reaction out of me is to piss me off.

My associates tell me this happens frequently.

So my sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, was understandably concerned when I called her in a quavering voice this week and asked her to come over right away.

"What the fuck do you want?" Tulip said in her gentlest voice as she hurried into my apartment. Ï was in the middle of washing my hair" (This, I believe, was a lie. Tulip is always wearing a doo-rag or a baseball hat or a chef hat or something; and I've rarely seen her hair. Thus, I believe that she rarely washes it.). As she swiped some important files off one of my chairs and helped herself to a beer, I tried to put into words the news I had received.

Ït's about my mother," I said and took a deep breath.

"I didn't know you had a mother," she joked, deadpan, trying to calm me.

"She's...she's...".

"What? Is she OK? Has there been an accident? What's wrong?"

"She's coming for a visit." I collapsed on to a leftover quiche sitting on the floor.

My mother had called that afternoon wanting to come for a visit. She had asked if that would be OK, but of course it didn't matter what my answer was. SHE WAS COMING. She wanted to see where I worked. She wanted to see what I had done with my apartment. She wanted to meet the "nice, young lady" I spent time with (I can only assume she meant my sous-Angry Chef Tulip).

This was a nightmare. A worse case scenario. A real life horror story. And Hell upon Hells.... I'd have to cook for her.

My mom doesn't think I can cook. She .... giggles... when I mention my culinary expertise.

My sous- Angry Chef Tulip frantically began to brainstorm my mother's favorite things, trying to pick my brain which had dissolved into a sort of pate.

"Sober up you ass!" she screamed, affectionately. "She likes Italy, the color green, science trivia... what else??"

I wracked my brain trying to uncover memories I had shut out long ago. Memories of my mother I thought I'd never have to face again. Then, with a rush of distaste, an idea occurred to me.

"Boats," I said as I rose to my feet. "She likes to draw pictures of boats."

"I don't see how that's going to help," Tulip said. Then, there was a knock at the door.

What you need to get:

Four zucchinis (try to avoid the obvious jokes)

One pound ground beef (chuck's the best, but if your dining with chicks go with lean or sirloin)

One onion

One egg

Jar of spaghetti sauce (Newman's own is usually protected with security cameras, but stealing your favorite flavor is worth the effort)

1/4 Cup bread crumbs

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon pepper (or to taste, so, a lot)

One cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese (Mozzarella works too, but you might as well forget about this whole recipe and throw a frozen Tombstone in the oven, jackass)

"Hello my little Minty- poo-poo!" my mommy said as I threw open the door, trying to smile. "Oh my heavens, this must be the Theresa that you've told me so much about."

"It's Tulip," my sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, said.

"Theresa... such a lovely name. And such a lovely girl!" Mommy said as she elbowed me in the ribs.

"We're just about to fix dinner, Mommy," I said,trying to change the subject.

She giggled, "How nice. What are we having? Perhaps a Playdoh turkey?" she harrumphed. "Maybe some dried glue chips? Mmmmmm.." she snickered.

"No," I said and pulled out the zucchini and my biggest knife. "Something else."

"Be careful to not cut yourself, sweetums" she said as she sat down to watch us create.

I sliced the zucchinis in half from tip to tip and gave the halves to my sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, to scoop out the insides. She also cut a thin slice off the bottom of each half so they wouldn't roll around but instead be flat-bottomed. When she was done, they looked like mini-canoes. Then she popped them in the microwave and nuked them for three minutes.

"You know, dear, microwaves don't really nuke things," my Mommy, who loves science, began to explain. I tuned her out as I turned my attention to the filling.

I dumped the beef and about half of the chopped onion into a pan and began to brown it. Browning ground beef is really one of the essential cooking skills. Its like chopping veggies, boiling eggs, and making rice. If you want to cook you have to learn how to do it well. All you have to remember is to keep breaking it up and pushing it around the pan. When you're done, drain it. Make sure it's done. This means that it is all grey to dark brown. NO FUCKING PINK-

"Pumpkin! Language!" Mommy said with her hand over her mouth, shocked. I muttered some sort of apology.

With the pan away from the heat, I stirred in the sauce, egg, crumbs, salt and pepper. I also add half the cheese. We had some sauce and half the cheese left over but I saved that to use as a topping. The other half of the onion went to Mommy. She likes raw onion, says it's good for her heart.

My sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, spooned the mix into each of the "boats" and microwaved them for another four minutes. Then she scattered the leftover cheese on them and zapped them for four more minutes. All this time, Mommy was telling a story about how once when I was little I walked across town with a board game under my arm, convinced that "Candyland" was a real place. The police were called, and there wwere search and rescue planes and blah, blah, blah, when will this ever end?

Finally done, we topped the boats with more sauce and handed one to Mommy, waiting for her reaction. She chewed and chewed wincing at the pictures of Playboy playmates hanging on the walls. Then she looked at us, scowled and said, "What are you waiting for? Eat up! There's starving children in Ethiopia you know...."

Who's the Rat? Pizza

I'd been out of work so long that I almost forgot what a bitch summer cooking can be.
Nothing, besides maybe building pyramids in Egypt or possibly working at a foundry in Hell is hotter work then running a rib shack in August. Yet that, my dear readers, is exactly what I have found myself doing for the last few weeks.
I wake up at the ass crack of dawn every morning with my pillow glued to my sweaty face. I pick up my co-worker, Abdullah, while hanging my head out the window of my stuffy Ford Escort. I fire up the barbecue pit and try to avoid losing any more of my eyebrows and hair to it's flames. I rack ribs, chop brisket, and trim off tails and snouts and try to avoid making my fingers part of any entree. I change t-shirts once an hour and have to resist the urge to wring out all the sweat and blood.
Perspiration has become a sort of hellish philosophy to me: I sweat, therefore I am. And we're not even half way through August.
Between the heat, the bloody pig parts laying around, and Abdullah's incredibly rank odor, I haven't had much of an appetite lately. I have noticed though, that these factors haven't stopped the eating habits of other creatures that hang out at The Squeal of Delight Rib Shack.
Namely, we've got some huge, fucking rats. And yes, I mean all of that literally. I've found that the little bastards like to hang out in the walk in cooler. I'm not sure what they would eat in there, maybe the coleslaw or the salad dressings, but that's where I always find them. They could be just trying to beat the heat too. It's almost like that Disney movie, with the cooking and the hair pulling. Totally boring storyline (if I want to see a story about an amateur in a kitchen, I just go to my local Chili's) but, entertaining enough.
As I swatted at them with a cleaver the other day I thought to myself, maybe these rats have the right idea. Maybe their life is really like that movie. Maybe, just maybe, we've all got a little bit of a rat in us. Maybe we're all just looking for our own, personal walk-in cooler.
Fucking philosophy again.
Maybe I have to get out of this heat and loiter for awhile in the air-conditioned check cashing place across the street.
Anyways, the rats, and the heat, and the movie, and Abdullah's BO made me come up with this recipe for tonight. I call up my sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, and tell her to get her ass over here with a cooler full of ice (and, yes, beer dumb ass).
What You Need To Get:
Pack of sliced mushrooms (steal these, you'll be making the world a better place. Grocers rip off people with shrooms all the time)
1onion
2 zucchini (try to avoid the lame, dildo joke)
1 green bell pepper
Fresh basil
Garlic ( Don't get a whole bulb. Garlic comes all minced up in little jars. Grab one of these and you're set for a couple of months, garlic-wise)
Red wine vinegar (NOT found in the liquor store)
Salt and pepper
4 large (burrito sized) flour tortillas
Jar of pizza sauce (Your choice. But PLEASE, not anything out of a Lunchable)
Bag of grated Mozzarella cheese
My sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, starts to slice all the veggies (so they look like what you would normally see on a pizza) and immediately starts asking me why we're eating them. She knows that I am more of a "meat Angry chef". I explain that today we are making something light, classic, refreshing, etc. etc. In other words, I'm trying to expand my fucking horizons so leave me the hell alone. We'll just say it's a "summer dish". God damn.
I take a hot, but not super hot pan and throw in the veggies, garlic, a few splashes of the vinegar and a little oil for lube. Then I stir the mix around for about five minutes. No, I think to my Angry self, cooking with veggies won't win you any friends. But they're cheap, and occasionally you may come across some hippie goddess that thinks you're "groovy" or some stupid shit. Rationalize it any way you can.
Meanwhile, my sous- Angry chef, Tulip, has popped the tortillas into a 400 degree oven for just a couple of minutes. She only wants to firm them up, like so many other women. Once they're to her liking, she takes them out of the oven, and spreads them with pizza sauce, leaving a little space around the edge.
I hit the veggies with the salt, pepper and basil and divide them on the little pizzas. Then I top them with cheese.
Sometimes I wonder whether I have to explain all my recipes in such pointed detail to my readers. I wonder, couldn't they figure this out on their own? Surely they have some idea of how a pizza is prepared? Don't they know that the best place to stab someone is between the floating ribs? But then, I remember my co-worker Abdullah. The man who can make a mean burger and absolutely nothing else. I asked Abdullah what he had for dinner yesterday and he told me mashed potatoes. I asked him if he used Russet or red, or fingerling potatoes and he laughed at me. Pointed at me. He said, "Angry Chef you are so funny! Everyone knows mashed potatoes come from box! Just like Bisquick!"
Sigh... on the contrary, sometimes I don't think I'll have enough time to complete my work...
Anyways, throw those pizzas back in the oven for another five or six minutes. When done, cut them up, hit them with your favorite extras and enjoy them with beer and TV.
My sous- Angry chef, Tulip and I have taken ours over to the lobby of a hotel on the west side. The decor sucks, and we're getting a lot of dirty looks, but, hey, its air conditioned and I'd bet my ass they've got rats back in their kitchen too...

Hoppin' Up and Down

There are some things in life, things often taken for granted, things often forgotten about when in ample supply, things you just don't seem to notice, that make living on this God- forsaken, little rock in the middle of nowhere almost bearable. Things like a mini-fridge full of beer. Free cable. Light traffic. A girl on the rebound. The douche bag neighbors being evicted. And, as I found out this week: steady income.
Yes, once again, the Angry Chef has found regular employment. My former boss, Abdullah, and I were hired at the "Squeal of Delight Rib Shack" in the mini-mall near the "Dollar Store" and "Rex's Fireworks and Stuff". The management, clearly overwhelmed at our resumes, gave us both a company apron, rubber gloves, and positions manning "the pit" and butchering "the new meat". Since they obviously noted that the two of us were no dummies, we also seem to be entrusted with the rest of the establishment. There's never anyone else here, and besides the noise of the pigs out back, the work is quiet and stress free.
Plus, I'm getting paid. Don't ever repeat this but I am the almighty dollar's bitch. No seriously, I mean it, don't ever...fucking...repeat.... that.
So anyways, just like the good things in life (or things that make it less worse than normal), there are good things in cooking too. The recipe that me and my sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, chose to celebrate my new employment with, Hoppin' John, includes four of these "making it sort of better" ingredients.
Another thing that makes life less worse then usual? A sous chef that knows how to read a fucking clock. I call up my sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, on her cell and ask what the hell's taking her so long.
Things You Need To Get:
6-8 slices Bacon
1 Onion
2 Tbsp. jarred, minced garlic (can't find? can't steal? fuck it... I mean, optional)
1 Bag frozen, or 2 cans black eyed peas (if you opt for frozen, shoplift by stuffing down the front of your pants, this will improve your shopping speed)
1 can Corn
1 cup Rice
2 tsps. Cayenne Pepper (do I need to repeat myself about nonexistent spice security?)
1 Tbsp. Cumin
Pepper (to taste, so, a lot)
Montreal Steak Seasoning OR Greek Seasoning
Hot Sauce (try to stretch your horizons and find something other then Tabasco you closeted, shallow twerp)
Everything is better with bacon. It can be, and is, used successfully in everything from drinks (Bloody Marys) to desserts (ever try honey and bacon glazed ice cream?). Maybe it's the crisp, or the salt, or the delicious mess it makes, or maybe you just feel like a bad ass eating it, but bacon is a welcome addition to almost any dish. It is the base of Hoppin' John. Cut up the bacon into small squares and throw it into a hot frying pan. Don't be shy about the heat, if possible bacon is almost better burnt. Use more if you want, hell, use the whole package. You can't really overdo this. While it's browning, chop up the onion and throw it in there with the garlic too.
When the onion is soft and the bacon looks just about done, throw in the rice, with two cups of water, the veggies, cayenne, cumin and pepper. My sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, is insisting that you should drain out some of the bacon grease before you add these things- so I guess you can try that if you're a pussy.
Incidentally, rice is another thing that's better with everything. Stuck on choosing a side with your entree? Make rice. Have to get rid of something in the refrigerator? Mix it with rice. Flat broke and starving? A bag of rice will sustain you for weeks, ask anyone in Laos. Rice mixes with and complements every type of food there is. Its like the cantina in "Star Wars": its always different, everybody's welcome, it can always surprise you and no droids are allowed. My sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, recently fed me brown rice with some sort of tofu junk in it. The rice made it palatable. Since I normally wouldn't get near anything that's made of any sort of "curd", this is a testament to rice's greatness.
Anyways, slap a cover on your pan, wait until it starts to boil, and then turn the heat down to low on it for about twenty minutes. Do not lift the fucking cover to "check" on it. DON'T FUCKING TOUCH IT. My sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, uses this time to explain to me that "wild rice" isn't rice at all but a type of grass. She claims that she knew a guy who knew a guy who used to smoke it. Any of you morons who can validate whether this is true or not are welcome to please send me a quick note and then never come back to this site again.
When time's up my sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, lifts the cover off the pan and gently stirs in the last two ingredients while the remaining water boils away. These are the last two "makes everything sorta better" ingredients. Montreal Steak Seasoning, despite its name, can be used for anything. Use it as a dash of flavor in veggie dishes and as a solid rub on meat (especially beef and chicken). Hot sauce is only for the real gourmet. Asshats and knobs are not welcome here. Just like pepper, hot sauce brings out flavor and eases digestion. True, if you are an advanced alcoholic with an ulcer you may not appreciate hot sauce. But then again, you aren't cooking anyways you piece of shit. And no, dipping Ritz crackers into peanut butter and topping them with old slices of ham does not count as "cooking".
Use the seasoning and sauce to what you think tastes best, starting with what you think is less then enough and adding more. Remember Einstein, you can put it in, but its a hell of a lot of work to get it back out.
Me and my sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, sit down to enjoy our bowls of "Hoppin' John" while I tell her about my day of basting brisket and smoking snouts. We have a lot of laughs over "Big Brother"and for once, just once this fucking month, life is sorta, kinda better then the pissing me off way it usually is.

Provoked Potato Salad

Why is it that whenever you really want to be left alone, when you really just want to sleep, drink and pass out in front of the TV (in that order), when you haven't had the energy to shower in days, why is it that those are the times when the whole, fucking world won't leave you alone? Maybe the landlord has to spray paint the entire house. Maybe that one friend that you can't stand keeps calling. Maybe some broad stops by with a court order stating you're the father. Or maybe, if you're an Angry Chef, the goddamn neighbors start ringing your front doorbell.
Except for the few times that their pets have wandered on to my small patch of grass, I've never met any of the people who live around me. And during these times, as you may have guessed, these people weren't exactly charmed with my unending profanity and loaded shotgun. I figure, they only want to see me if I'm packing a moving truck, and I only want to see them if they're standing on the street while their house burns down. Yet Mabel, the old broad who lives in the Victorian on the corner, had to go and fuck this all up.
I had been wearing the same pajama bottoms all week long and I had potato chip crumbs all over my chest when she rang. She only gulped a little when I threw open the door and growled, "What're you lookin' at?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you dear," she said, flapping her dentures. "I thought you might like a flyer." She handed me some weird pink- colored piece of paper. It was an invitation to, of all the stupid things, a block party. Sunday afternoon, potluck, BYOB, contests and prizes. for the love of...
"What makes you think Id want to attend something like this?"
"The girls and I understand that you're something of a gourmet. We're all dying to see what dish you bring."
I slammed the door and looked at the invitation again. Hmmmm.. dying to see what dish I'd bring, huh?
With the seed of an idea in my head I took a quick shower, changed clothes, called my sous- Angry chef, Tulip, and told her to get her ass over here.
What You Need to Get:
5 lbs. small, red potatoes
1 bunch of celery
2 red onion (pocket size)
1 bunch scallion (perhaps one of the easiest things to steal in the produce section)
2 green peppers
Parsley
Mayo (the older the better)
Sour cream
Dijon mustard
salt and pepper
With the possible exception of egg salad and puffer fish sushi, no food has killed more people than
potato salad. Nothing pulls at a Salmonella's heart strings like a mix of starch, oil and eggs basking in the summer afternoon. Hopefully, with the right conditions, my potato salad would be the death of all of those annoying people who only lived for their Tru Green chem lawns and hydrangea bushes anyways. Me and my sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, are going to roll up our sleeves and start working on my diabolical plan right away.
Unless you're a complete idiot, and you may be since just reading this may implicate you in murder, you've probably guessed that the main ingredient in potato salad is, ......wait for it, potatoes. Boiled potatoes specifically. Grab a big pot, or something else, like a washtub, that can fit on the range. Dump the potatoes into the pot and cover with water. Put the pot over some wicked heat until it boils then ease up a little and let it slowly bubble for about 15 minutes. DON"T FUCKING TOUCH IT. When they are done, stabbing the potatoes with a fork should be as easy as jamming it into someone's eye.
While I work the potatoes my sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, has been chopping up four of the scallion, the peppers, the onions, the parsley and four stalks (or sticks, or ribs, or shoots) of celery. As my sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, knows, this does not have to be done perfectly. As long as you keep your hands out of the way you can pretty much just go crazy with a cleaver and the veggies will turn out OK. When she's done, each veggie is in its own little pile chopped into various shapes and sizes.
My sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, has just reminded me that I should tell you that you should wash all this stuff first. I say, maybe. Then again, the chance of e. coli being in the dirt sticking to the celery ups the odds in my favor for the perfect kill.
When the potatoes are done boiling, I take them out of the water, and set them aside to let them drain and cool off. This is the same technique your local police force uses for violent drunks on Saturday night. While we wait, we start on the sauce.
I know most of you don't possess the arsenal of chef equipment that I do (just got a Slap Chop in the mail, probably could have let Tulip borrow it just now but I wanted to be the first to use it), so I decided to show you how to do this step with something I know most of you DO have. A spoon and a coffee mug.
Mix into a bowl one mug of mayo, four big spoons of sour cream, two big spoons of mustard, two big spoons of salt and as much pepper as you can stand.
When the potatoes are cool, and not like, flipping out about stupid shit anymore, cut them into fourths. That means cut each one into four pieces, math majors. We mix the potatoes with the veggies and pour the sauce over all of it. You can stir it to blend with a spatula, or a big stick, but for this particular batch I use my hands.
Finally, if my sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, and I had planned to eat this we would first refrigerate it for a few hours. Since this is for the suburban hordes of domestic hell, leaving it in the open-air, at room temperature is fine.
Unfortunately, the day of the party was cloudy and the sun was nowhere to be seen. It was cool out, not muggy like the last three weeks had been. A slight wind made it seem like it may rain at any minute. Everyone was pissed about the weather. But none as much as me. This was not mass poisoning weather. I couldn't even join in with their bitching because I was afraid I might have let my plans slip over one too many Schlitzs. I gritted my teeth and chugged beer as I listened to their god awful stories about mortgages and dentists and ballet recitals. My sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, entertained the kids by tying cherry stems into knots with her tongue.
All in all another rotten day. Serves me right for trying to be social...