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Monday, 06 January
I Throw A Bunch of Crap in a Pot and Consequently Suffer Mental Imbalances

I made a pot roast last night, and boy was it edible! It was consumable from front to back. It had an adequate crust and a passable texture, because, if I may say so, I cooked it competently, and if anyone tells you different, you stab them right in the groin and scream, "I'm no fool, motherfucker! Skot has competence coming right out of his ass!" Then, you know, plea bargain, I guess, because hey, you stabbed someone, dummy. Man, what's wrong with you?

Anyway, the pot roast was fine, but as usual, I overcooked the fucking thing. I have some odd culinary blind spot that relates only to pot roasts; I'm thinking of seeing a specialist. Perhaps Dr. Phil. "Dr. Phil," I'll say, "I always overcook my fucking pot roasts. What the hell?" And he'll bare his great blockish teeth at me, and the studio lights will glint icily off his pate, and he'll give me some warmed-over bootstrapping bowl of bullshit about self-empowerment and relate a humorous, folksy anecdote involving a small-town car mechanic and a rooster, and the audience will roar at the dumb boob who can't muster up the fucking gumption to lay off the heat on his damn pot roasts, for God's sake. And I'll just be sitting there going, "Rooster? Who is this pervert?" But no, they'll cut to commercial, and the director will crabscuttle over to me and plead with me not to say "fucking" so much on national television.

So that's no help.

Well, the next step is obvious. I need Peggy Noonan. Why didn't I think of this before? So, yeah! I'll stroll up to her on the street, where she's out stuffing beggars into Hefty bags, and I'll breezily say, "So, Peggy, I cooked the fucking shit out of another pot roast last night. It looked like a goddamn meteorite. Christ!" I'll kind of shriek that last bit, so she knows I'm serious about this. She'll fix me with a wise, sad look, and let the mumbling Hefty bag slither to the ground. "When we cook, we nourish. You nourish yourself, and so you nourish society; you float up and out into the neighborhood in this way; a mournful waltz heard through rippling muslin. Take up your pot roast, and in so doing, you take up society's pot roast. Skot, take up all of our pot roasts, take them up and sing." She'll lay a gentle hand on my shoulder, and say farewell. "I must go," she'll coo, "there are so many beggars." I'll stand there, touched and mesmerized.

"Tomorrow," I'll whisper, tears of confusion sparkling on my cheeks, "I'm cooking chicken."


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Comments

I think that you need to use a more standards-compliant cooking system, probably based on CSS, preferably CSS-2 if you have a newer oven.

Comment number: 002368   Posted by: claxy on January 7, 2003 08:20 AM from IP: 134.197.57.87

Alternatively, have Digital Zempf shine your knob to a high polish, then you won't care about pot roasts.

Comment number: 002369   Posted by: senn on January 7, 2003 09:04 AM from IP: 12.224.111.37

It had a crust?

Comment number: 002370   Posted by: Dave A on January 7, 2003 10:19 AM from IP: 146.7.44.45

izzlepfaff: A mournful waltz heard through rippling muslin.

Comment number: 002371   Posted by: jennifer13 on January 7, 2003 01:42 PM from IP: 206.69.163.132

"have Digital Zempf shine your knob to a high polish"

MNFE.

Comment number: 002372   Posted by: TheBrad on January 8, 2003 01:28 AM from IP: 64.218.67.252

At Baskin-Robbins you can take in a photo, any photo, and they'll scan it and make a cake that looks like your photo. The ads for this is the stores have big button on them that say "COMPLETELY EDIBLE!"

And really, that's all I ask.

Comment number: 002373   Posted by: rodii (1) on January 11, 2003 05:38 PM from IP: 68.40.45.77

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