So I’ve had a little bit of free time lately, and I decided to use it to do something productive. Yesterday was clean up day. I figured, after about three months, it was finally time to clear out the mountain of Wendy’s and Hardee’s take out bags that were piled up on top of my trash can. No seriously, the pile was almost as tall as I was. It was getting to be a chess match between me and the fragile prehistoric mound-like edifice I had built. Will one more bag fit on top without everything toppling over? Can I go one more day without having to take out the garbage? These are the questions that plague my mind daily.
So I loaded everything up into four separate trash bags and took everything out. Yes, four trash bags for a one bedroom apartment. I’m not a dirty man, I’m just lazy. Hey, I take my trash out once every three months, that means I’m being clean enough, right? You know what, do me a favor and don’t answer that.
But yesterday was about oh-so much more than taking out the trash. In fact, my dirty clothes had been building a mound society of their very own. Normally I have to pull the hammer out of my tool box so I can use the claw side of it to rip apart the garments that have become cemented together in my laundry basket. I’m actually surprised that the amount of time and pressure exerted upon my dirty clothes in the laundry basket doesn’t fuse two articles together to form some sort of mutated freak of apparel. Luckily that hasn’t happened. Nor did I have to resort to using tools to separate my clothes. For some strange reason, the laundry basket has remained next to my washing machine since the last time I did clothes instead of returning to my closet where it belongs. Hey, I’m lazy, remember.
So instead, I found a large mound of dirty clothes lying on the floor of my closet blocking me from access to my dresser and whatever else I might need. Normally that would be a bad thing, but it’s been at least six months since I folded and clothes and put them away. I have developed a perfectly intellectual system for my clothing cycles. The smelly wrinkled clothes on the floor are dirty. The wrinkled clothes laying on the futon are clean. And of course, if it’s on the floor and it doesn’t smell, it gets relegated to that grey area where it’s ok to wear as long as I’m not going on a date. Well, it’s probably ok to wear on a date as long as I’m not trying to impress the girl.
So after starting a load of laundry, taking out the trash, and cleaning a few dishes (the nice thing about fast food is that you don’t have too many dishes to worry about) I decided to bake a batch of cookies. See, there’s this recipe for double chocolate cookies that I’ve been meaning to try since I’ve never actually done a pure chocolate cookie recipe before. Hey, I enjoy baking. Now I know what you’re thinking, but this does not make me a woman. Guys can be domestic too you know. So before you start making fun of me, let me just remind you that I’m 6’2”, 190lbs, an avid hockey player, and I could totally beat the crap out of your boyfriend.
I think my forays into the mystic realm of bakeries is well documented. So suffice it to say, I pretty much know what I’m doing. And as luck would have it the cookies turned out rather well. I’m enjoying them at least. It was a pretty small batch I made up so I most likely will not be sending any out to friends, which is a break from my normal routine. I believe in sharing, I’m nice like that. Just like when a friend of mine is dating a girl who has a physically attractive sister/roommate/friend on the rebound, I expect them to share. Like I said, it’s the polite thing to do.
I look back now and I see a much cleaner apartment and I feel an odd sense of accomplishment. Granted, it’s not exactly what most of you would normally call “neat” or “clean.” There’s still junk lying out over the coffee table and who knows what sitting on top of the kitchenette bar (seriously, I’m too afraid to find out). Hey, a there’s only so much domestication a guy can do before the NHL All-Star Skills Competition comes on. And yes, I’m that big of a hockey freak that I watch the skills competition every year. What can I say, I love hockey.
Unfortunately, I won’t be able to watch the All-Star game tonight. It comes on at 8pm Eastern Time and I have my own hockey game to play at 9pm. This game is important too since we have a chance at winning that would put us at 2-2 for the season. That would be huge when you bear in mind that we only had two wins all last season combined. I’m not afraid to admit that we suck. And you know what? I’m ok with that. We’re getting better, and with some luck we could finish this season at .500 or better. That’s the goal at least.
In the meantime I should probably finish what I started yesterday. My apartment still hasn’t been totally cleaned up, but you know what, screw it. I’m too lazy. Besides, what did you expect? If you want to see clean and tidy go call up Martha Stewart. If you want to see an apartment that revolves around pizza, beer, and video games then you’ve come to the right place. Now if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I need to go grab another beer…
As a final note I wanted to give some kudos to ESPN commentator Mike Ditka for being the only person on ESPN (both on TV and on ESPN.com) to pick the Bears (DAA Bears!) to win the NFC Championship game over the New Orleans Saints. I’m sure he had personal reasons for picking the Bears to win, but nevertheless, he was the only one who got it right. The rest of you football journalists should pay attention. Mike Ditka is smarter than you. Oh, and Rex Grossman is still my hero. Laugh at me all you want, but he’s in the Super Bowl and you’re not.
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
The Things I Do for Food
Well, Saturday I did the unthinkable: I used a kitchen appliance other than the microwave. I know, I know, there are inherent dangers involved when setting foot in the kitchen with the actual intention of cooking. But I was not daunted. I did not waver. I happen to have renters insurance, so if I end up burning the whole place down, it’s covered. No worries.
Ok, so it’s not like I was going to war, I was only baking cookies. Making cookies from scratch is one of the few things besides micro waving pizza rolls that I excel at. But don’t let the sweet and tasty nature of the cookies fool you, the entire experience was a journey, and not one to be undertaken by the light of heart. However, if you have the fortitude to read onward, I will take you through that journey, step by step, in hopes that someone out there will learn from my endeavors.
First off, I entered the kitchen and was immediately besieged by a foul stench. The source of this noxious odor was already known to me. A pile of dirty dishes sat in my sink looming above me, casting a shadow over my kitchen much as Mount Vesuvius shadowed the ancient Romans. And as the Fates would have it, my dish washer was broken. Well, it’s always been broken, and I just haven’t gotten around to getting it repaired. Washing dishes by hand isn’t that big of a deal, is it?
So I wielded my mighty sponge and extra strength dishwashing detergent and I ambushed the decaying stack of kitchen debris. However, my best efforts were quickly thwarted when the sink refused to drain and it filled to the brink with hot water. But no, I had come too far to turn back at my first set back, so down went my arm into the scalding pool of water. After a few minutes, I managed to clear out all of Tuesday’s Rice-a-Roni Special that was clogging the pipes. As the water level gradually dropped, I breathed a short sigh of relief. Then onward I pressed scrubbing each dish harder than the last and after a considerable amount of time, and no small amount of vigor on my part, all the dishes were cleared from the sink.
With my first foe skillfully removed from the field of battle, I turned to my next opponent. For once, luck was on my side. I had all the necessary ingredients in my pantry for my recipe, which is great because some of the spices I use cost almost $10 for a .9oz container. And that’s just ridiculous.
Sugar, eggs, shorting and other ingredients piled into a large bowl. I prepared my electric mixer for the one specific task its creators forged it for… mixing. Although my mixer is quite capable, I do wish it had more power. I was thinking it would be so much more efficient if I put in a gasoline powered internal combustion engine to replace the underpowered electric motor it currently sports. Think of it, a mixer with 15 horsepower could do some real damage. It could probably be used to make some baked goods as well from time to time.
I hate flour. It’s white, it’s powdery, and it has a tendency to fall all over my kitchen like the first fall of snow in the winter. But flour is needed to make just about everything in the baking world, so there’s no getting around it. Once I opened the flour container, the fine powder erupted out of the top, spewing forth like the blighted ash from a volcano and covering not only my kitchen, but my face as well. I don’t think I’ve ever had a carbonated beverage explode with such ferocity. I hate flour.
Now that my kitchen looks like what I can only imagine is a Columbian drug cartel’s mixing room, I realized something important: I forgot to preheat the oven. So I set the oven to the usual 350 degrees Fahrenheit, and I began to fill up the cookie sheets. Rather than sit around and wait for the oven to heat up, I turned on my TV and watched some playoff hockey. Ah, there is nothing the reaffirms ones manliness like a good game of hockey. Well, maybe a few rounds of Halo 2 on Xbox Live, but since I don’t own an Xbox, hockey it is.
The oven light turned off alerting me that it was time. I pulled down the door to the unholy furnace and was greeted by waves of heat emanating from liquid hot magma. I tossed the first sheet of cookies inside shuddering at the thought of what strange chemical processes were occurring within my new concoction. A bare nine minutes later I pulled the sheet out and replaced it with the next one. What were once shimmering balls of goo were now flat and rigidly solid. I briefly wondered if I had created a new force of malevolence in the world. But one taste test confirmed it: they were thoroughly cooked, but not to the point of getting burnt, and oh so delicious!
Now the smell of death and decay began to pass from my kitchen. It was replaced with the sweet fragrance of ginger and cinnamon (I was making gingersnaps; it’s an old family recipe). But I was not done yet, there was much cleaning to be done. Bits of cookie dough, flour, sugar, and who knows what else were strewn about my kitchen counter, as well as the floor, the walls and even the ceiling. I don’t know how I got stuff on the ceiling, and to be honest, I don’t think I want to know.
I quickly equipped a dish rag in each hand and utilized my “Super Double Fisted Ninja Scrubbing Attack.” You can laugh all you want, but by adding the word “Ninja” to the name, I succeeded in making the technique twice as effective. You should try it out sometime.
So, two periods after I had set out on my journey (approximately 40 minutes plus TV timeouts), I had reached the end. The cookies were done and sealed away, the kitchen was clean, and I had my revenge that I had sought for so long. Ok, so there wasn’t really any “revenge” going on, I just thought it would go along with the rest of the epic journey motif. Therefore, until I again must hazard the strange and monstrous appliances that haunt my kitchen, I will leave you with this one bit of advice… I hate flour
Ok, so it’s not like I was going to war, I was only baking cookies. Making cookies from scratch is one of the few things besides micro waving pizza rolls that I excel at. But don’t let the sweet and tasty nature of the cookies fool you, the entire experience was a journey, and not one to be undertaken by the light of heart. However, if you have the fortitude to read onward, I will take you through that journey, step by step, in hopes that someone out there will learn from my endeavors.
First off, I entered the kitchen and was immediately besieged by a foul stench. The source of this noxious odor was already known to me. A pile of dirty dishes sat in my sink looming above me, casting a shadow over my kitchen much as Mount Vesuvius shadowed the ancient Romans. And as the Fates would have it, my dish washer was broken. Well, it’s always been broken, and I just haven’t gotten around to getting it repaired. Washing dishes by hand isn’t that big of a deal, is it?
So I wielded my mighty sponge and extra strength dishwashing detergent and I ambushed the decaying stack of kitchen debris. However, my best efforts were quickly thwarted when the sink refused to drain and it filled to the brink with hot water. But no, I had come too far to turn back at my first set back, so down went my arm into the scalding pool of water. After a few minutes, I managed to clear out all of Tuesday’s Rice-a-Roni Special that was clogging the pipes. As the water level gradually dropped, I breathed a short sigh of relief. Then onward I pressed scrubbing each dish harder than the last and after a considerable amount of time, and no small amount of vigor on my part, all the dishes were cleared from the sink.
With my first foe skillfully removed from the field of battle, I turned to my next opponent. For once, luck was on my side. I had all the necessary ingredients in my pantry for my recipe, which is great because some of the spices I use cost almost $10 for a .9oz container. And that’s just ridiculous.
Sugar, eggs, shorting and other ingredients piled into a large bowl. I prepared my electric mixer for the one specific task its creators forged it for… mixing. Although my mixer is quite capable, I do wish it had more power. I was thinking it would be so much more efficient if I put in a gasoline powered internal combustion engine to replace the underpowered electric motor it currently sports. Think of it, a mixer with 15 horsepower could do some real damage. It could probably be used to make some baked goods as well from time to time.
I hate flour. It’s white, it’s powdery, and it has a tendency to fall all over my kitchen like the first fall of snow in the winter. But flour is needed to make just about everything in the baking world, so there’s no getting around it. Once I opened the flour container, the fine powder erupted out of the top, spewing forth like the blighted ash from a volcano and covering not only my kitchen, but my face as well. I don’t think I’ve ever had a carbonated beverage explode with such ferocity. I hate flour.
Now that my kitchen looks like what I can only imagine is a Columbian drug cartel’s mixing room, I realized something important: I forgot to preheat the oven. So I set the oven to the usual 350 degrees Fahrenheit, and I began to fill up the cookie sheets. Rather than sit around and wait for the oven to heat up, I turned on my TV and watched some playoff hockey. Ah, there is nothing the reaffirms ones manliness like a good game of hockey. Well, maybe a few rounds of Halo 2 on Xbox Live, but since I don’t own an Xbox, hockey it is.
The oven light turned off alerting me that it was time. I pulled down the door to the unholy furnace and was greeted by waves of heat emanating from liquid hot magma. I tossed the first sheet of cookies inside shuddering at the thought of what strange chemical processes were occurring within my new concoction. A bare nine minutes later I pulled the sheet out and replaced it with the next one. What were once shimmering balls of goo were now flat and rigidly solid. I briefly wondered if I had created a new force of malevolence in the world. But one taste test confirmed it: they were thoroughly cooked, but not to the point of getting burnt, and oh so delicious!
Now the smell of death and decay began to pass from my kitchen. It was replaced with the sweet fragrance of ginger and cinnamon (I was making gingersnaps; it’s an old family recipe). But I was not done yet, there was much cleaning to be done. Bits of cookie dough, flour, sugar, and who knows what else were strewn about my kitchen counter, as well as the floor, the walls and even the ceiling. I don’t know how I got stuff on the ceiling, and to be honest, I don’t think I want to know.
I quickly equipped a dish rag in each hand and utilized my “Super Double Fisted Ninja Scrubbing Attack.” You can laugh all you want, but by adding the word “Ninja” to the name, I succeeded in making the technique twice as effective. You should try it out sometime.
So, two periods after I had set out on my journey (approximately 40 minutes plus TV timeouts), I had reached the end. The cookies were done and sealed away, the kitchen was clean, and I had my revenge that I had sought for so long. Ok, so there wasn’t really any “revenge” going on, I just thought it would go along with the rest of the epic journey motif. Therefore, until I again must hazard the strange and monstrous appliances that haunt my kitchen, I will leave you with this one bit of advice… I hate flour
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