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...

Snarling Skillet

Well, another week gone by.

Another seven days of walking the streets, pounding on doors, being interviewed by total jackasses and having to pretend I like them, and summing up my entire professional career into a two page resume (actually, that last part wasn't that tough).

Unemployment sucks. Luckily, I've been picking up some catering gigs here and there or I might've run out of beer money. Then I'd really be pissed.

I have begun to go back to some old habits that I gave up when I decided to pursue a life of slicing and searing. Back then, just out of high school, I had the entire daytime TV schedule memorized. I did a lot of crossword puzzles, and tore them to shreds when I couldn't finish them. I drank a lot, but only booze because I thought beer was fattening (lite beer was too expensive). I smoked too, from my ears and the top of my head. I lived with three other guys and my sous- Angry chef Tulip at the time, and we all made most of our money playing cards, hustling pool, and robbing gas stations. My sous- Angry chef Tulip ran some sort of website too; but I've never been good with computers.

I lived mostly on booze and ramen noodles and I thought I ate like a king. But there was this one guy that used to come over all the time and bring us these white, plastic bags full of food leftover from the restaurant he worked at as a fry bitch. Onion rings, french fries, chicken patties, jalapeno poppers, mini tacos, you name it... he could plunge it into boiling oil and make it delicious. My sous- Angry chef Tulip used to call him the Truman of cholesterol a-bombs.

One time when this guy was over, he caught me in our small kitchen making a pot of Oriental Ramen. In a coffee maker no less. He threw me against a wall, which collapsed, and with drywall and plaster sifting down around our faces screamed at me, "I can't let you do this to yourself anymore! You're killing yourself! This is no way to live!" He let me up and started telling me some bullshit about catching a fish for someone and they're good for a meal vs. showing someone how to fish so they're good for a lifetime. I totally ignored all of this because I hate fish. I don't think I need to go into this, besides saying that they're slimy, nasty creatures that eat worms. They belong on your walls or buried in your garden. If you like fish please pull your head out of your ass and out of the Stone Age. Goddamn..

Back to the story: So, in order to round out the limited number of dishes I could prepare at the time, and to ensure that I'd have enough energy to drink, gamble and run from the cops, he showed me how to make this recipe.

I could really use some of that old youthful energy today. So I call up my sous- Angry chef, Tulip, and tell her to get her ass over here.

What You Need To Get:

1 pound ground beef (unfortunately, the dude who showed me this, like I said, had a job. He didn't pick easy-to-steal ingredients)

1 can Cream of Mushroom soup, condensed (I take it back, stealing soup's easier then robbing a Lion's club bell ringer)

Minute Rice

Frozen corn

Salt and pepper

First thing, take the meat and drop it in a hot pan. You want it to sizzle when it hits the pan and to have it make that wonderful, angry "ssssssssssss"sound. Use a spoon or a fork or your hands (watch your knuckles) to break it up into small pieces while it turns grey and then brown. When the meat's how you like it (it really doesn't matter what color it is, it's just that the civilized world generally eats their meat cooked. Sushi is another thing I hate about fish.), you may want to drain off the grease. Really this decision comes down to how hungover you are. Since my fucking bank account is almost empty, I didn't drink last night. Therefore, I drain it while I mutter under my breath. Then I hit it with salt and pepper.

My sous-Angry chef, Tulip, has opened up the soup and she "pours" it over the beef. It comes out more like a big grey piece of shit but evens itself out as I stir it in. Then she takes the soup can, fills it with water, and adds it to the beef. She takes a spoon and empties out every last bit in the can because we paid for it and want our money's worth. Christ, pull the noose a little tighter, Campbells.

Then, using the same can one more time, my sous- Angry chef, Tulip fills it to the brim with Minute Rice and adds it to the beef. Once again, she spoons every little bit out.

She missed a little rice around the edges and while I dump pepper on the whole mess I loudly criticize her technique. She clears her throat, says I'm a little "edgy" today, and points at the pan. I may have gone a little overboard with the pepper. But that's OK. Pepper totally makes this dish.

Furious with life and in general, I turn up the heat and start to bring my skillet to a boil. My sous- Angry chef, Tulip, throws on a couple handfuls of the frozen corn. Just when the pan is bubbling I throw a lid on it and turn the heat down to a simmer.

Then we wait about twenty or thirty minutes, chugging beers and trading stories of douchebags long ago hustled.

I go back to uncover my pan and crank up the heat. I do this to get rid of excess moisture. You want a thick end result, not soup. Soup if for the old and infirm. Soup (with the exception of chili) is for pussies. And if anyone offers you a "bowl of chowdah" and you don't immediately contemplate socking them in the jaw then I need you to get off this page right the fuck now and never come back.

Anyways, we're done. Hit it with some more pepper. Dump it on a plate. Get in front of the TV and devour.

On a final note, I ran into the guy who taught me this just a few weeks ago. He now owns a "well- being" restaurant, whatever the fuck that is. I told him I had been making this recipe again recently and he got all excited. Dancing around in his ripped up corduroys, tripping out of his sandals, nappy dreads swinging everywhere. He told me, between wheezy breaths, that you can make it with ground turkey, brown rice, homemade, organic soup and about a billion different veggies from the farmer's market.

I listened to him patiently and thought about all the things I had to get in order, all the stupid pointless errors I had to run in order to achieve nothing at all, and how complicated he wanted something so good and simple to be.

But I kept the smile plastered to my face and waited till he was done ranting and raving and spitting on me. And then, I flipped him off and stomped away...

Malibu Pat's Killer Sandwich

Things have not gone well for The Angry Chef this week. The butcher store where I held my day job, cutting off tails and snouts and spreading wood chips over especially large bloodstains was shut down for "possible e-Coli" contamination. I blame this on Abdullah, the lead butcher, and his strict adherence to the fifteen second rule. So now, I'm only left with a couple of part-time catering gigs once or twice a week and a steady date with the classifieds.

But on Monday, just as I had finally gotten the couch cushions the way I liked them, just after I had opened my first can of Blatz, and just after Cops had started, there was a banging at my apartment door.

It was my old friend, Malibu Pat, from Hawaii. Mama Angry Chef had always warned me to stay away from Malibu Pat when I was younger because, "He's trouble." Sure enough, as soon as he stepped into my place, trouble ensued.

I don't remember a lot about that Monday night. We called Tulip, and she came out with us to The Zebra Room and The Voodoo Lounge. I think she started a fight with somebody over pinball... or maybe that was her dancing on the bar. I'm really not sure. Malibu Pat kept pushing Manhattans and Old Fashioneds in my face while he sucked on these gigantic, multi-colored drinks, decorated with umbrellas and fruit salads.

"What the hell are you drinking?" I'd ask.

"Malibu spritzers, Malibu Maui Wowies, Malibu and orange, Malibu Beaches, Malibu Slammers..." he went on.

"Why only Malibu?"

"Cuz its from where I live."

"I thought you lived in Hawaii."

"I do."

Everything got hazy after that.

Anyways, I woke up the next morning to a foul smell. Not foul like the smells I'm used to after the usual drunken bender. No this was worse. This was the smell of something... something awful, cooking. I ran into the kitchen with my hand over my face only to find Malibu Pat, in a flowery shirt and tighty whiteys standing by my stove and making something vile on it.

"What the fuck is that?" I asked politely.

"THIS... is the Malibu sandwich. You can eat them for breakfast, lunch and dinner. With or without the bun. With or without ketchup and Tabasco. With or without a fork."

"How about, in or outside the Goddamn house?" I growled.

"Let me show you how to make one," he said with a shit-eating grin.

What You Need To Get:

1 can of Spam (if you get caught stealing this they're only going to laugh at you)

Eggs (possibly the only healthy ingredient, steal them)

1 sleeve of Saltines (or Panko bread crumbs, if you think you're better then us)

Butter (use your best judgement, so, a lot)

White bread

Mayo

Pepper

1 can pineapple slices

Ketchup (optional: that means, screw it)

Hot Sauce (optional: see above)

I should've rethought the title for this post. Spam probably won't kill you. But its so full of chemicals and preservatives that it will make someone in their twenties look like a WWII vet and keep them that way until they die of some mysterious illness at 145. If you'd like to live in a nursing home for the next 80 years (and there really are some nice ones that serve only the best Jell-O these days), then read on.

First, open the can of Spam and cut it into six slices. Try not to gag. Take a slice and dip it into a bowl of beaten eggs. Then dip the slice into a bowl of Saltine crumbs. This should make it look more attractive. Meanwhile, my sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, has melted a bunch of butter in a super hot pan and is starting to curse as it spits on her. This is the way I want it. Food is pain.

Drop the Spam slice onto the pan and let it sit for about four minutes or so. Don't fucking touch it. When the kitchen starts to smell like pig hell, flip the slice, and leave it alone for another four minutes.

My sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, has meanwhile taken two slices of white bread and spread a thick coating of mayo on one of them. I chose Wonder Bread because I figure, if you're not gonna settle for real meat, why settle for real bread? After arguing over what was better, Mayo or Miracle Whip, we finally found a jar of mayo in the fridge that had expired in March of '08. We used this with no hesitation because #1 It was free, and #2 We believe there is no such thing as mayo "expiring".

When its done, slap the slice down on the mayo-ed piece of bread and sprinkle a little pepper on it. The slice should be a golden, almost edible looking brown. Top it with a few slices of pineapple and close it up.

If you're still even paying some sort of fucking attention, you will notice that you still have five slices of Spam left. One word: Repeat, dumbass.

Malibu Pat explained that he likes the sandwich above for lunch. He enjoys this monstrosity outside the bun with Tabasco, using a knife and fork for breakfast. And, this is the worst, I couldn't even list it in the ingredients; he eats it on Kaiser rolls with...pickles... for dinner.

My sous-Angry Chef Tulip has dug in to her Malibu Pat sandwich as I am about to run to the bathroom gagging. They are chatting it up, having a great time, making seconds as the desperation and processed meat that life brings continues to rise in my stomach.

Then my sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, asks Malibu Pat when his flight home leaves.

"Flight home?" he says, clearly confused. "I drove here."

Tulip Tuesday: Chew On This Cookie Dough

Stuff you need to get:

3/4 C Butter (steal and save little pats from area restaurants)

1/2 C White sugar (same method as the butter)

3/4 C Brown sugar

1 T Vanilla

Eggs (One whole egg and one yolk)

2 C Flour

1/2 tsp. Salt

1/2 tsp. Bakin' Sodey

Chocolate chips (A whole bag. Use Nestle, not that other crap.)

My sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, has demanded to write another recipe. We have been watching the World Cup (she's cheering for Slovenia for some unknown reason, I think they look like a bunch of Charlie Browns on the field). And somehow, in some way, this has possessed her to make cookies. I can only hope this is some sort of diversion to keep us out of fights at the local pub, but still, I can't figure out what the fascination with baking is...

Hey everyone, Tulip here.

C'MON! C'MON YOU FUCK! KICK THE GODDAMN BALL!

I'm a little wrapped up in watching the World Cup at the moment. In the time between shots on goal, you can work on chocolate chip cookies. Or in my case, the cookie dough.

I suppose I should say the usual shit about being careful: raw eggs, salmonella, blah blah blah; but you already know it. And I'm betting you jerks all eat raw cookie dough anyway.

This recipe's a little more complicated then the usual Angry Chef recipe folks, but I promise you it's worth it.

Melt the butter in the microwave, and then stick it back in the fridge for a sec (move the beer over, if you absolutely must) while you mix the dry stuff. Mix the brown and white sugar in a large bowl. Mix the flour, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl.

Take the butter out of the fridge and mix it into the sugar bowl. Really make sure it's all mixed. Then add the vanilla, egg and egg yolk. Add the flour mixture into the sugar/butter mixture and mix it up well. REALLY. MIX IT. WELL. Then pour in the bag of chocolate chips (yes, the whole goddamn bag) and sweetly, gently, mix it in.

I guess the Angry Chef doesn't bake because its one of the few things he doesn't know much about. Much like the other cultures I see represented on the TV, I think baking is sort of hot, in a sweaty, wreck your shirt way, composed of all sorts of stupid ingredients, and takes much too long to come to a foregone conclusion. I mean, really, how many times does Argentina have to kick the shit out of the U.S. before we realize that this may not be our national past time? Baking gives the Angry Chef that same sort of "well, duh.." feeling.

SIT DOWN COACH! SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND SHUT UP! YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT! SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Sorry, England makes me tense.

Put the cookie dough in the freezer (move aside the pizza rolls and Hot Pockets first) and preheat the oven to 325. When its preheated, take the cookie dough out of the freezer, take a big soup spoon, and spoon it onto a greased baking sheet. Don't roll it into balls or handle it too much. DO NOT FUCK THIS UP.

Pop it into the oven for 13- 15 minutes, or until the edges are a light golden brown. The center of these things should be hot and chewy and amazing.

Or maybe you're like me. You don't feel like turning on the oven when its already 80 and as sticky as Lindsay Lohan at 2 a.m. on Saturday morning... maybe you'll just pop the raw dough into the fridge and eat a few spoonfuls here and there. You can always cover it and eat it or bake it later, or-

GET UP! GET UP YOU FUCKING SONOFABITCH! WAIT.... YEAH!! GOOOOAL!! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!!

Brawlin' Wings

What you need to get:

Three lbs. of chicken wings (don't even bother trying to steal these)

Salt and pepper (check your local diner, pretend you just wanted to "use the restroom")

Red salsa or salsa verde (I use red salsa after a particularly shitty day)

Butter, about half a stick (unbelievably hard to steal)

Carrots

Celery

Ranch Dressing

My sous-Angry Chef Tulip and I got in a little bit of a spat. It involved something about ethnic cooking and a mistake I made with her tofu scramble and the fact that she "accidentally" poured water all over my cell phone. It ended with rocks being thrown, one of the lamps through my TV, and the cops coming to my patio door with their guns drawn. Once we all agreed that the whole thing was a "misunderstanding", it was all good. And, the whole situation inspired this recipe, which my sous-Angry Chef Tulip thought was, after her eyes stopped blazing red, hot spurts of flames, delicious.

My best advice about this recipe is to make it when you're super pissed off. Otherwise its not the same.

First of all take the biggest knife you have, or an axe, and chop off the ends of the wings and then chop them in half at the joint. It is perfectly acceptable to scream "motherfucker" over and over again while you do this. Think "Psycho".

Then, lightly sprinkle the wings with salt and pepper, both sides dumb ass, and softly coo to them about the hell they are in for. Dante-esque heat. Sizzling fat being rendered out of their little bodies. Dipped into a sauce from a hidden valley where strange looking children devour veggies all the time.

Tulip is telling me I'm getting carried away and need to calm down. Apparently, the neighbors are starting to gather outside the front window.

So, deep breath, put the wings on a baking sheet and stick them in the oven, at 425 degrees, for about 40 minutes. Make sure the sheet is oiled, otherwise you'll end up tearing them to pieces. We want to get medieval here, but not that medieval.

My sous- Angry Chef Tulip is preparing the sauce for the wings in the meantime. All she's had to do is melt half a stick of butter and about three to five tablespoons of hot salsa in a small pan. Her rule is to use more hot sauce than you think you can handle. If you can not abide by this rule your wings will suck, and so will you.

After the forty minutes in the oven, take out the wings and paint them, on both sides dumb ass, with the salsa/ butter mixture. Do not skimp on this part. Use all the sauce you've made. This part is easy. DON'T FUCK THIS UP.

Put the wings back in the oven for another 15 minutes.

I asked my sous- Angry Chef Tulip to cut up a little cilantro, scallions, and jalapeno to toss with the wings when they're ready, but she's still a little pissed at me. Instead, she cuts up some celery and carrots into sticks and squirts a big glop of Ranch dressing on to the middle of her plate. "This'll be good enough, don't you think?" she says to me. And we both try to stare each other down and growl a little.

When the wings are done, we both toss a few on our plates and devour them while we watch the movie "Falling Down". Later we scream at the TV watching the World Cup and the local Fox News. The cops are called again, but, this time they see that we aren't killing anyone. Tulip shows them her garlic mushroom hummus recipe and everything's all good.

Every once in a while, a good brawl is all you need...

Cranky Corn

What You Need To Get:

Corn on the Cob

Salt and Pepper

Paprika (optional)

I live in a corn growing state.

Even though this is an unending source of shame to me I have learned to embrace it. I endure the statues of cows erected in the cities I live in. I don't wince at the poor little half breeds that are named "Fairest of the Fair". I refuse to get sick when I smell liquid manure, even when I'm hung over. And I embrace, in all its sloppy glory, corn-on-the-cob.

What people need to know about corn-on-the-cob is that its all about getting dirty. Its all about getting right into the thick of things and putting your mouth all over it. Corn is like putting nasty, dirty things all over something from the salt of the earth and getting jiggy with it. So yeah, corn-on-the-cob is lot like sex. That's why people like it. People are nasty.

As for me, I'm Angry. But I still believe in good ingredients for this recipe. Only the best (and cheapest) will do. So I got in my Ford Escort last Sunday and headed out of the city to the first small town with a general store and antique mall that I could find.

You have to travel outside an urban area if you want to find good corn. Please don't continue reading this if you have gone to Cub Foods or Walgreens or some other fucking conglomerate for produce. You're wasting everyones' time. If you can't travel out of town, at the very least, shop a local farmers' market.

I sound like a hippie. God damn...

Anyways, I found a roadside stand, manned by two very awkward teenagers who presented me with freshly picked, gigantic ears of corn for just a few bucks a pound. I looked them over (no bugs, if you see bugs run away quickly), and decided the green husks and ripe corn beneath looked okay. They told me the price.

Never, ever, ever accept the initial price of corn from someone selling it on the side of the road. You can always knock them down a few bucks. They're selling stuff on the SIDE OF THE ROAD for God's sake. The last time they did that they were probably hawking pestilent lemonade.

Once a deal has been reached I bring back my corn to meet my sous-Angry Chef Tulip at my pad.

My sous-Angry Chef Tulip had prepared my small Coleman grill so that was hot, but not too hot. That means she fired up the coals and then left the vent holes on the grill closed. CLOSED. Do not fuck this up.

Meanwhile, I grabbed a stick of butter (or margarine, if you're a pussy) and melted it in a small pan. When it was all liquid I peeled back the husks (carefully, DON'T peel them off) and used a small paintbrush that I snagged from the local hardware store to "paint" the butter on to the exposed corn.

Tulip was telling me this whole thing was stupid. She said that all you have to do to make corn was to boil it. And she's right. You can make corn that way. But I reminded her that my way was better, and fuck everyone else.

After I "painted" the corn I sprinkled it with equal parts salt, pepper and paprika. You can skip the paprika, but I will think you're a jerk and challenge you to a fight the next time I see you. I rolled the husks back up, and threw all the corn on the grill.

Then I sat back and listened to the lulling sounds of industrial farming going on all around me.

I turned the corn every five minutes or so, leaving it on the grill for about fifteen minutes. Just until it had some decent char marks. Midwestern produce doesn't get interesting until it looks angry.

When we ate it, I had to remind my sous-Angry Chef Tulip that the whole secret to enjoying corn-on-the-cob was to be dirty.

"Slather it with more butter," I told her. "Sprinkle it with salt!" "Bite into it like a caveman would!" Forget about the shit caught in your teeth!" "Use your jaw to clean off the extra bits!" And we shared a little bit of an unprofessional culinary moment over twelve husks of dessicated corn.

The Angry Chef's face was all gloppy with butter and salt. I was completely full and had a strange feeling around my chest, like it was full too. Tulip looked very content lying back in her chair and grinning at me.

And I thought, this must be why people come here. Dirty food like this must be why people come to the Midwest.

Otherwise, its just a vast, fucking wasteland. Nasty.

Tulip Tuesday, Cherry Coke JELL-O

Things you need to get:

Cherry JELL-O (easy to steal)

Coke (you don't know where to find a Coke?)

Reddi-Whip (unbelievably well protected at grocery stores, borrow from Grandma)

Tulip has been bugging the shit out of me about writing her own post on this website. Seriously, text messages at 4 in the fucking morning are NOT COOL. So I decided to give her her own little moment to get her off my back: this one's called Cherry Coke JELL-O.

Hi everyone, Tulip here, the sous-angry chef. The Angry Chef is busy sleeping off his latest escapade, which involved consuming all the beer in my fridge and watching "Lost" episodes until 3 AM. So you know what? Fuck him. I'm taking over today, and we're gonna make some delicious Cherry Coke JELL-O. Ready? Here we go.

The Angry Chef would like to point out that he is certainly NOT ready for this culinary disaster. All he can picture, in this brief moment of clarity, is Bill Cosby and a grown-up Rudy doing the nasty in Atlanta while someone tries to sell him "a Coke and a smile". I'm going back to bed.

Get a box of cherry JELL-O. I don't care if it's regular or sugar-free. Why buy sugar-free JELL-O anyways? You're concerned about your health? This shit is made from horses' hooves. Get over yourself. Anyways, heat up some water in the microwave or on your hotplate, and use it for the hot water part of the JELL-O recipe.

Next, grab a can of Coke out of the fridge. It has to be REALLY, FUCKING COLD. If you fuck this part up, you don't deserve to live on your own. You can stick it in the freezer for a few minutes if it's not cold enough. But whatever you do, DO NOT forget it's in there, because otherwise it'll explode and leave a huge mess over the inside of your freezer and piss off your landlord and you'll never see that fucking security deposit ever again. Except, maybe, in the form of new flame detailing on the side of the bastard's truck. Prick.

Also, I don't care if it's regular or Diet Coke, but if it's that diet caffeine-free shit, get the fuck out, you pansy. Same for you, Pepsi fans. I would say something about store-brand cola, but I doubt it's consumers know how to use this damn "intraweb thingy". So take that cold-ass can of Coke, pop it open, and pour about 2/3 of it (8 oz.) into the hot, JELL-O soup. Chug the rest and crush the can against your forehead. YOU MUST DO THIS.

I've opened my eyes long enough to say that I'm kind of proud of my sous-angry chef,Tulip. Her landlord really is a prick. We've gotten into fights over which Bon Jovi album is the best on at least two occasions. Also, crushing the can against your forehead is ESSENTIAL. I think I've taught her well.

Pour the JELL-O soup into jam jars, glasses, shot glasses, bowls, whatever you have handy. Shove aside the rest of the Coke and beer in the fridge and put the JELL-O in. Leave it alone for FOUR HOURS. Don't you dare fucking touch it. Go play PS3 or throw rocks at things for awhile.

After you've worked up an appetite playing GTA3 or pissing off that beehive, you can shovel it down. It's pretty damn tasty with some Reddi-Whip on top. Perfect for soothing the barely contained rage at the inattentive Angry Chef sleeping on your couch for the past fifteen hours. Maybe I should poke him to see if he's still alive.

Eh, I'm sure he's fine..

Brahhts NOT Brats

What you need to get:

Brats (Brahhts)

One onion (Incredibly easy to steal)

Beer (not so easy to steal, especially a lot of it)

I went to the county fair the other day. This, as you may have expected, went horribly. There were little anklebiters running all around me (brats). It was about 90 degrees and hicks were splashing sweat all over me. And all the bands sucked... with the exception of the punk band in the kiddy area that kept dropping f-bombs. That part I really enjoyed.

Anyways, since I was a little hungry and had some extra cash to spend on their over-priced swill, I went over to the local Kiwanis' tent and ordered myself a brat (Brahht). It was, in a word, horrible. So I threw it back over the counter in the general direction of the guy with the funny hat and demanded my money back.

So after I was escorted off the grounds and asked not to return, I decided to invite my sous-angry chef, Tulip, over so we could make some "real" brats (brahhts) of our own. Yes, there were still some brats (brats) running around, my neighbors' have a thing for blasting Bryan Adams music while they let the kids run around outside, but all in all it was a good idea for something to make for this weekend.

I let my sous-angry chef Tulip make the fire. I just get too carried away when I'm around inflammable stuff and find myself throwing in stuff like the neighbor's shrubbery, junk mail and old cassette tapes (ones that aren't mine). The key for brats (brahhts) is to pile the coals up in the middle of the the grill (And I'm talking a little Weber grill here people, PLEASE MOVE ON if you're using a cadillac-sized gas grill) so the heat is centered in the middle of the circle.

Meanwhile, I'm in the kitchen, slicing up a whole onion (and no, I'm not crying, bitch) and bringing my brats (brahhts), covered with water, to a boil in a small saucepan.

When the water's good and rollin', throw in the onions and, here's the secret, a can of beer (maybe two if you can spare them).

My sous-angry chef, Tulip, prefers to use imported beer (Guiness, Hacker-Pschorr, etc.) But I think that's just stupid. First of all, you're only trying to get the "essence" of the beer, not, like, fine bouquets of malts and barleys. Secondly, that shit's too expensive for just it's "essence". Remember, you just mixed it with an onion and meat, "My goodness, my fucking Guiness" is not the experience you're looking for here. I use Milwaukee' s Best or Pabst.

While we're at it, let's talk about brats (brahhts). There are only two acceptable kind: Johnsonville and Klements. If you disagree, sign off of this site right the fuck now and never come back. Enjoy your damn bologna sandwiches.

I'm letting the brats (brahhts) simmer for ten minutes or so in the saucepan while Tulip is yelling at me about "not being nice" and I'm trying to ignore the brats (brats) running around the hot grill outside. This is a good time to start drinking the rest of your beer.

When I finally put the brats (brahhts) on the grill, there's one important thing to remember: Put them in a ring around the outer edge, THE OUTER EDGE. Do not fuck this up. You want them to have indirect heat. Close up the holes on your Weber and flip them every five minutes or so until they have a nice, charred crust on them.

When they're ready, serve the brats (brahhts) in a sturdy bun (thick Kaiser or sourdough, NOT A HOT DOG BUN) with a little ketchup, mustard and maybe some of the onions you boiled them in. If you dare to eat them with a knife and fork, be warned that your masculinity is in grave danger.

Tulip has been teaching the brats (brats) a little game called "The Rock Game" so they'll shut up and not disturb The Angry Chef while he enjoys a "real" brat (brahht). She can actually be kind of handy to have around, especially when I'm having brats (brahhts) and beer.

Hard-Ass Eggs

I've been feeling a little sick this week. Kind of an upset stomach, and tired out. In times like this, I rely on a little snack that's good for me, fills me up, and that any idiot can make. A snack that I can carry around in my pocket and pelt people with if I feel the need. A snack that goes with anything and makes you feel better. Hard- boiled eggs.

My sous- angry chef, Tulip has been coming over making soup and toast and crap like that. This, I tell her, is a waste of time. Why boil up some weeds, or char some grain, when you can easily make a handful of protein and essential vitamins?

Tulip, of course, was offended when I asked her this, and she's been stomping around in the kitchen for the last few hours washing some dishes that she says, "I must be ABOVE cleaning".

Anyways, for this recipe, which only a complete moron can screw up, you'll need a dozen eggs. Not small eggs, or medium eggs, and don't bother worrying if they're "organic" or "free- range", just buy twelve, as big as you can get, eggs. God damn.

I dated this girl from Poland once, and she used to complain about how bad the eggs in America were. She'd say, "The Polish eggs taste better. They are more natural. They're brown, not white." To which I had to reply, "The reason they're brown is because they come from different chickens from different parts of the world. I guarantee I can make an omelet as good as the one you made in Krakow. And it'll probably even look edible." Shortly afterwards, we broke up. What I'm trying to get through your skull is: it doesn't matter what kind of eggs you steal... just make sure they're big.

On to the cooking:

Now put all these eggs in a nice, roomy pot covered by about an inch of water, and put it on your hot plate turned up to high heat. My sous- angry chef Tulip is telling me that you should also add a splash of vinegar to the water. Something about the shells not cracking. I think she's still just pissed at me.

When that water starts to boil (lots of bubbles on the sides, a few rising to the top, NOT OVERFLOWING) take it off the heat, cover it up, and leave it alone for ten minutes or so. DON'T TOUCH IT, that part is very important.

After about ten minutes of TV watching time, drain the eggs and run cold water, as cold as you can get it, over them. The idea is to stop them from cooking so they don't burst out of their shells until they're ready. Hopefully, every guy that's reading this knows what the hell I'm talking about.

After a bit of fridge time, you've got a perfect snack that's easy on your stomach and sort of good for you. Tulip mentioned to me just now that you can make some sort of egg salad out of them, or slice them up and use them as a topping, and I guess that's all well and fucking good. I prefer, though, just to peel them and eat them as they are (the fun part is, this really grosses some people out).

But I don't know, she did the dishes. Maybe we'll try something her way tonight...

The Perfect, Pissed-Off Pork Chop

What you need to get:
One package of pork chops (about a pound)
Salt and Pepper
Your choice of spices (make a decision for once)
One can Condensed Cream of Chicken Soup

So we all need meat, right?
No, I'm not talking to any wanna be vegetarians. No, I don't think "true" vegetarians really fucking exist. You people are living in denial. Human beings have pointy teeth for a reason. Accept this fact and step away from the pot of lentils and the Kumbaya jam session. If you can't stop hugging your fellow animal-lovers and grow a pair then this site is not for you. Switch over to the PETA, KFC protest blog immediately.
Anyways, besides chicken, pork is probably one of the healthiest choices for meat out there. It's lean, it tastes good, its the other white meat. And its cheap (only a few bucks for about a pound).
My sous-angry chef, Tulip, is telling me that bone-in pork chops have more flavor then boneless pork chops; but I think this is bullshit. Yes, a bone may add more flavor to a piece of meat. But you have to realize that you're paying for something that you're not going to eat. Something that will stink up your garbage for the next few days. Go boneless, I'll show you how to take care of the flavor.
There's also a whole bunch of whiners out there raising a fuss about low-sodium versus regular soup. The urgent care doctors have advised me, due to my abnormally high blood pressure, to avoid sodium. So I keep the salt shaker away. My mom used to have salt and pepper shakers shaped like a cat and a dog. The thought of shaking anything out of a cat's ass on to my food still makes it easy to avoid extra sodium. However, in this case, I would just choose the soup that you like best. Whether its low sodium, or tastes good, won't matter in the end.
Finally, I've said it before and I'll say it again: don't pay for your spices. For this dish you'll need your choice of cumin, paprika, rosemary, or chili powder. They all come in little jars, they all fit in the palm of your hand, they all slip easily into your pocket at the grocery store. The grocery store "security" is NOT watching the spice aisle; they've got their cameras trained on the liquor and cigarettes. You will not be caught unless you are a complete retard. And really, do you feel that you should pay for something that you're only gonna use a few times in the next couple of months?
My angry-sous chef, Tulip, is making some noise about how that's wrong and whatever. Something about building a spice rack. Fine, I have an extra shoebox at my apartment, maybe I'll start building a fucking spice rack.
On to the cooking:
My dad taught me this recipe, or at least let me watch while he made it, and told me that its cheap, easy and even social workers think its classy.
Start out by hitting the chops on both sides with the salt and pepper and rubbing it in. Use as much as you like, I can't hold your hand on this one.
Next, set the chops in a blazing hot pan. MAKE SURE ITS HOT. You can check with a few drops of water or some oil, or your knuckle, but you have to be sure that the pan's surface is smokin'. This is very important. After about two minutes (maybe three, check to see if the downside is turning white), flip the chops.
In the meantime, Tulip has mixed the condensed soup with another can of water and is heating it up in a small pan over the radiator. If I need to explain to you how to do this, you SHOULD NOT be anywhere near household appliances.
When both sides of the chops are a little brown, I add whatever spice I'm using to both sides, and pour Tulip's soup over them and lower the heat. Then I partially cover the pan, PARTIALLY COVER, and watch TV for ten minutes or so. I flip the chops once again after that and watch TV for another ten minutes or the closest commercial break.
You can finish these with a little extra spice, or maybe pour a little of the soup over them, but they're pretty good on their own. If you got the chops with a bone, you can hold them in your hand while you eat them. If you're more of a refined asshole, like me, you use a knife and fork and get your sorry self out of the stone age.
Tulip wants to watch "Dexter". Perfect Pissed-Off Pork Chop food...