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.
I don’t claim to have cornered the market on slattern-dom, and I certainly didn’t invent it. I have, however, done my level best to elevate the art form over the past twenty years or so, and as I look back on the cluttered landscape of middling meals, drunken dinner parties and neglected housekeeping that has been my life, it occurs to me that none of this could have been so easily accomplished outside the urban jungle. Let me explain.
First of all, the urban environment is easy on the domestic tippler. Let’s say it’s five o’clock and you and a couple of pals have been having a friendly chat over a bottle of vodka for the past few hours. You realize you were supposed to pick up your kids from soccer practice, but getting behind the wheel is no longer an option. No need to endanger the driving public, disturb your better half or give up your parking space — just call a livery service and send a car to pick them up. After three or four instances of this, most city teens will learn to take a twenty from your purse before leaving the house, store the car service number in their phones and call the ride themselves after waiting around for an hour or so. Kids these days!
Recipe: Roasted peppers
If you don’t like the way they make ’em in the city
Cause they taste all wrong and the dang pepper ain’t pretty
Roast your own, roast your own.
˜ With apologies to Hoyt Axton
Freshly roasted peppers are a staple in my kitchen. You can throw ’em in a salad, eat ’em with pasta or grind ’em up for soup. They’re also delicious on sandwiches or with fresh mozzarella for lunch. Sure you can buy them in jars at the market, but they always seem to have vinegar in them and they never taste good. And anyway why would you buy something nasty that’s so easy to make and tastes infinitely better when you do?
Now, I’m not entirely sure what getting tagged is, but then again I don’t really know what Twittering is either, and that doesn’t stop me from doing it. So here, to the best of my Sazerac-compromised ability, is my attempt at answering the tag.
Here are the rules:
1. Post the rules.
2. Answer the questions the tagger set for you.
3. Create eleven new questions to ask the people you’ve tagged.
4. Tag eleven people and link to them on your post.
5. Let them know you’ve tagged them!
Susan’s eleven questions:
1. What’s a topic you’d never touch in your blog?
Cannibalism. I’d have absolutely no idea how to roast a human loin. Hell, I struggle with a pork chop and there are directions for that.
2. Which word do you hate and why?
Slice. The sound of it makes my toes curl and my back arch. And not in a good way.
3. If you had to give up blogging, because of time constraints – or some other kind of pressure – what would you do as a substitute?
Duh. Begin happy hour before lunch.
4. What’s a frivolous holiday, in your opinion?
Let’s see, a day with no work, feasting and special drinks? They’re all busman’s holidays to me when you get right down to it.
5. Write a caption for the above picture.
I said no more FUCKING formula.