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..