Sometimes my Boy likes to cook food for me. Which is awesome. Despite having majored in Culinary Arts (*cough* for one year), I really hate cooking dinner. I like making pretty fancy food, particularly baked good, for people to enjoy as much visually as gastrointestinally. Dinner is a means to an end. Get me un-hungry please! I find it to be an unpleasant waste of time spending 25 minutes creating what it’s going to take 5 minutes to consume, especially when there are much faster alternatives (frozen meals, easy mac, toast… um… plain Egos…). So the fact that my Boy will take this horrific task off my hands and not only cook food, but make it taste good…. it’s awesome.
The only thing is that, whereas I’ve been exposed to cooking and baking my whole life, both my parents having vast experience in the culinary word, the Boy is a little less… practiced in the kitchen. The food he makes is delicious, and sometimes even not ugly, but he usually arrives at that destination by accident. I’ve dubbed him the Awkward Chef, which is quite fitting. Uncertain at best with a knife, hurts himself peeling carrots, cautiously poking at the spaghetti every two minutes saying, “do you think its done?” Adorable.
However, one thing he can make that he can really really make is homemade french fries. ADDICTIVE. Ohhh so crunchy and salty and YUMMMM. They’re especially awesome because – like i said – he’s a little uncertain with a knife, so some pieces are crispier than others, and some pieces of some pieces are crispier than others, and it makes for beautiful bouquet of flavors and textures.
Tonight for dinner I wanted what I like to call a “Homemade Happy Meal,” that is, frozen chicken nuggets and the Boy’s french fries. As I peeled the potatoes, he asked me if I wanted to have potato chips instead, which sounded just delightful (and WAS.) After he had reduced the potatoes to uneven slivers of ready-to-fry taseyness, we both tried to reduce the last quarter-inch thick slice to something a little slimmer without removing any digits. He failed. Then I did too. I was ready to toss the slice into the trash or into the pot with the rest of them, but then the Boy took it and did something shocking. WARNING: if you have a weak stomach you may want to avert your eyes.
He ate it.
He ate the raw potato.
Oh. My. God.
I tried to stop him. At the last second I screamed, “DON’T YOU DARE EAT…” but it was far too late. He ate the raw potato.
And not only did he eat the raw potato, he then attempted to compare it to eating a slice of raw cucumber with salt on it. Uh, yeah, except that raw slices of cucumbers are routinely used in salads and other raw-veggie dishes. I have never in my life seen a sliced up potato between the carrot and celery sticks in a vegetable platter. Which is because nobody eats raw potatoes. Except my boyfriend.
His grandmother was quick to defend him, but let me give you a little snapshot of his grandmother. An 82 year old woman whose head is a lofty 4’10” off the ground and whose body shape resembles a toad walking on his two back legs, she would criticize the pope for being 6 minutes late were he to schedule a dinner with this family. “You’d think since he’s the pope and all he would be on time! I’ve got to take my pill, how do I know when to take my pill if we’re not going to eat when we think we’re going to? When someone says something you’d think they would stick with… what they said.” All this would be said loudly, awkwardly, and through a forced laugh so dry and fake it makes you gag a little. We all get reminded about her pill and the importance of her meal schedule on a semi-daily basis.
She’s lived with the Boy’s family for longer than the Boy has, and never paid a cent for it, except when asked to borrow a small stipend now and then. Which she keeps track of in a ledger. If, for example, she happens to see that a liter of Dr Pepper is on sale at the Kroger for 89 cents, and decides to pick one up as a “favor,” it goes in the ledger. And then she complains about lending money, as if her phone is ringing all day with people asking for handouts.
The woman is one of those long term transplants I mentioned before, born and raised in Ohio in earliest third of the 1900’s, so when she scoffed at me for having never eaten raw potato, what she said was, “Ya’ve never had a raw buh-tay-tah?” She went on to babble endlessly about how she always ate raw buhtaytahs, and all her kids ate ’em too, and they’re good, and I should try one sometime. I told her I’d sooner die.
I would, too.
Today’s Reading: I Am A Six-Month Grief Survivor :: Bertram’s Blog