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..