Current mood:

determined

dsced 5
I made dinner.

Ok, you normal people thing that that is nothing. It's different for me. I don't know how to cook.

Thus far in all of my years I either eat what I am given, or I go buy an already cooked version of what I want. I am fairly certain that a person, or indeed a family, could survive in such a manner comfortably.

But although I consider my Dad to be a talented chef I've grown sick of the same mixed red sauce pasta dish, grilled something or other, side dish attempted without a recipe or clear sense of taste, or really good steak every few days that he cooks. His cooking is a black and white affair. Half the time it is amazing and delicious, spoiling me to any fancy restaurants and certainly outdoing any steakhouse I've ever been to, the other half I feel bad throwing it out where some poor seagull might eat it. And no matter the outcome, his cooking is always accompanied by a cringe inducing destruction of the kitchen.

Mom has an enviable ability to think the blandest crap is real food, and therefore is perfectly happy tossing some pre-boiled shrimp and a can of stewed tomatoes over white rice and calling it Shrimp Creole. One of her favorite summer dinners is to boil plain pasta, throw in a can of tuna fish and a cup of mayonaise, and put onto saltines what she calls "tuna pasta salad". Sometimes she puts some paprika or celery on it, when she wants it to look fancy. However, this strange bland diet and lack of actual ability to COOK cook keeps her in pretty good shape, better than I hope to do. She's HAPPY eating bland garbage, and bland garbage has few calories. I could only wish I could lose my sense of taste.

(I need to note here that Mom isn't totally without virtue in the kitchen. She can't (or rather won't) cook much, but when the urge strikes her she can bake. Like crazy whoah. You should have her pies. Or cannoli. Or what other random pastry she feels a sudden craving for. De-licious.)

And although I do live in a land that absolutely loves its food, the Buffalo pallet is hilariously fattening. If you live within fifty miles of here, you know exactly what I'm talking about. We're a city that stays on the map by soul virtue of fried chicken limbs. And pizza. Ok, we have a little known signature dish called roast beef on wick, which is about half a pound of beef on a salted roll. We also have Mighty Taco. Subway only has so many different kinds of subs, and it's hard to eat there when down the street for the same price you can get a Wegman's version that is twice the size and thirty times as tasty. As an indulgance it's a wonderful place to find food, but eat like this every day and you will be both poor and fat.

So I'm dissatisfied with the food I'm served at home, and I'm either sick to death of or terrified to eat the things I can buy myself, and it's time to be a grown up and pick up a pan myself.

My main problem is that over the years I've grown too picky to eat my own cooking. I'm not very good at it yet and there have been some hilarious misses. I've forgotten that macaroni was boiling for over an hour and then still attempted to add cheese to the starchified glop. I wasn't aware that I was supposed to cook the rice first when making chicken on a bed of rice. I have a habit of letting the pan get too hot, which brings me seriously close to a grease fire when I slap a fatty piece of bacon onto an overheated skillet. I like red meat rare and it took a while to figure that the same theory does not translate well at all to pork or poultry. I'm nnot sure how to use a knife or a pot or a frying pan, let alone something fancy like a strainer or such and such. In all I've been laughed out of the kitchen before, and until now I hadn't had a bother to try again.

Lately I've been hungry enough, bored enough, and annoyed enough to give it another go. I've thus far mastered the technique of making a pan fried steak, and a little bit ago I came up with a chicken dish accompanied by potatoes and salad, but both of those were set up by my Dad. With instructions. Written out step by step. Taped to the various parts of the kitchen where I would have to use them. I improvised on the side dishes because his side dishes suck, but I didn't make the salt brine for the chicken and I didn't cut the steak down. They were good, but they weren't all me, understand? The preparation was almost done, I just actually put it in the pan.

Today I came home in one of those hungry angry moods that us women are entitled to once in a while. Mom was happily dining on two day old "shrimp creole", complete with saltines. I want protein and carbs and possibly something green and crunchy. I don't think tomatoey rice is actually a complete meal. She shrugged, "So make some mac and cheese or something."

I had a mini bitch fit directed at the instant mac and cheese box. No. Fuck you instant Mac and Cheese! I am cranky. I am tired. I am hungry. And I want a goddamn meal. I do not want to eat you instant weird tasting crap! Not unless I have to! What else is in this pantry?

So I made dinner. And it was delicious. And I am proud of myself.

I boiled some pasta in salted water. I heated a jar of regular store brand Alfredo sauce, but seasoned it with pepper, salt, Parmesan cheese, and strangely enough honey. It was amazing and delicious how much a couple tablespoons of honey changed the sauce and made it go from "Eh, I could eat this," to "Mmmmmm." Then I set up some frozen chicken breasts in olive oil, and cracked pepper and salt over it, with a little bitty dash of poultry seasoning sprinkled on both sides. Seared the chicken nice and crisp like, let it settle, and cut it into strips over the piled Honey Fettuccine Alfredo. And for the green and crunchy bit I tossed together a simple salad of mixed greens, a bell pepper, a carrot, and one of our neighbor's retardedly delicious home grown tomatoes. This I tossed with oil and vinegar and put on the table.

Mom had some. She admitted it was better than the shrimp creole.

Alright, I didn't make an Alfredo sauce from scratch, I didn't make my own pasta, and I used a prepackaged poultry spice. But I still made dinner, and it was frickin' delicious. I felt that was a creative thing to do, and so I'm using it as my dsced.

Don't you dare fight me on this. Don't you dare.

Also, Mitch: I failed at my crash diet already. Forgive me!