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...