As I have previously documented in my cluttery, overfurnished, boozy little corner of the blogosphere, given even a glimmer of a chance, I would move into a hotel and eat every meal in a restaurant for the rest of my life. In a heartbeat. Alas, though we all have dreams, we must also live in the real world. As such I can cook, and of necessity I do cook; from time to time I’ll admit I even enjoy it.
Knowing how to prepare a basic meal is just one of those things a reasonably competant adult should be able to do, along with riding a bicycle, driving a car and swallowing the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle without going all sissy and gagging.
Now I’m not saying everyone needs to be able to rustle up a standing rib roast or les nonnettes de poulet Agnès Sorel at the drop of a hat, but really the production of a simple omelette or burger should be well within the abilities of even the meanest intelligence. Hell, Guy Fieri has built a lucrative career as a cook, and he can’t even figure out which side of his head his fucking sunglasses belong on.
(NOTE FROM MANAGEMENT: The following is my rather clumsy, half-assed attempt at a live blog. Apparently WordPress doesn’t have this feature, so I improvised. It’s a cautionary tale of how bad things happen to good bloggers when they overreach their technology limits.)
Joined the party late owing to circumstances beyond my control. OK, the hangover was a little tougher to manage than I anticipated.
First thing: How many more fingers can be double dipped? I mean I do it, but only when no one’s looking. Oh my God it’s a Petri Dish!
9:25 Aaron Carter’s ranch dressing nearly makes someone puke. Perfect.
9:30 What the hell is going on with Taylor Dane’s lips? Is she cooking? Who cares?
9:35 Lou’s turbo ribs look to be the winner. Look at Joey Fatone’s sombrero! Charming? I think not.
9:40 There’s a whole lotta arm fat goin’ on there. Ladies, sleeves please.
9:41 Aaron Carter’s gone for that macaroni.
9:42 Guy Fieri’s beard is the nastiest thing I have ever seen. It looks like Pam Anderson got about halfway through a brazilian but chickened out, jumped off the table and took the peroxide to what was left.
9:46 Rachel’s team wins! Coolio lives to cook another day. His pigtails will return! Has anyone noticed he gets no air time? Clearly nothing that comes out of his mouth is suitable for a family audience.
9:58 Aaron’s definitely going to cry.
9:58 Lou DP is a bit of a tool, no?
9:59 Next week: Dessert and Taylor Dane cooking in a dress that plunges to the navel with hair hanging in the food. Who’s going to eat that? The food I mean.
Ah New Year’s Day, that wonderful celebration of new beginnings, hangover ministrations, formal apologies, stomach pumps and bail hearings. Following as it does on the heels of what my family fondly calls amateur night, January first is steeped in homespun tradition, most of which centers around stepping over the moaning carcasses of relatives, friends and complete strangers strewn around the living room and desperately trying to warm themselves at the flat screen. But it’s also about disconsolately sipping Alka Seltzer between trips to the powder room and coping with the mortification and shame that accompany each flashback of the night before.
And then, of course, there are resolutions to be contemplated, made and almost immediately abandoned. What’s mine? you ask. Well, in addition to losing those pesky last thirty pounds (plateauing at two is such a bitch) and giving my liver the occasional day off, I’ve vowed to watch each and every episode of Rachel vs. Guy: Celebrity Cook-Off. The January first premier is perfect timing; I’ll already be nauseated before it even begins! Read the rest of this entry