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...."
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