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."