You may have noticed that I routinely post pictures of food on this blog. And yes, I’m the one who does the cooking. Egads! A man who can cook? What is the world coming to!?!
Actually, only women are surprised that I can cook, most men accept it indifferently like we accept everything else. We really only overreact over sports and women. Women over 45 are surprised because they don’t know any men who can cook. Women under 30 are surprised because they have no idea how to cook. The decade and a half in-between are pretty hit or miss.
However, since apparently two separate generations are somewhat confused by the fact that I cook, I thought I’d lay out some basics here. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go all Julia Child on you, she was far more of a man than I could ever be.
First thing, if you are not a complete idiot, i.e. you can read; then you can cook. This is not rocket science here. If you’ve ever looked at a recipe you may have noticed the chronologically challenging nature of a cookbook. First there is step one (often with a picture,) and then you move to gasp step two! Congratulations moron, you now know how to follow directions. Feel free to hook up your own damn tv next time you move, I’m busy.
One thing that I do that some people can’t/won’t is throw things together without a recipe. This is slightly more complex since it isn’t actually written down for you. However, you mostly just mimic things that you’ve done in the past and enjoyed. I’m going to lay out my three primary rules, simply because I don’t want to think of more:
1. Butter is good
2. Olive oil is good
3. Garlic is good
Yep, that’s the extent of my thought process. Home style cooking is easy because it isn’t supposed to be pretty. Presentation is for blowhards in white hats, food ought to be ugly. My culinary experiments are very basic and simple, because I enjoy simple food. My real trick is to use fresh ingredients whenever possible, because fresh is always better. Pretty basic.
I hate to burst your bubble here if you were impressed, because it really is very simple. I can read, therefore I can cook. When I don’t feel like reading I use butter, olive oil, and garlic and hope for the best. Done deal.
People sometimes ask me why I’m still single, and I always say because I know how to cook. Look fellas, if you’re wondering if that girl is worth it, just ask yourself if she’s a better cook than you. If she isn’t, than she isn’t worth it and you need to move on, fucking immediately. What’s wrong with you?
C’mon ladies, ya’ll know it’s true! It’s not like the knife doesn’t cut both ways. If you’re wondering if that guy in your life is truly the special someone, just ask yourself if he makes more money than you do. If he doesn’t, he isn’t. Don’t even try to deny that this isn’t part of the process. Remember, “all you need is love” was written by a man with a full bank account.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Grizzly
Growing a beard is always an interesting experience, simply because people take notice. Some men who can’t grow a beard are jealous, and others are nostalgic for the days before their wives made them shave daily. Women almost universally dislike facial hair; generally for an idiotic reason.
First off, people really need to stop saying, “are you trying to grow a beard?” No, and I never have. It takes effort to refrain from growing a beard, none to let one happen. There’s no trying involved, it's just a consequence of puberty.
Secondly, and this one is personal, don’t act surprised as if you’ve never seen me with a full beard. If you’ve seen me in the last decade, there’s a 50/50 chance you’ve seen me with one. If you don’t see me regularly perhaps it’s 40/60, but still, pretty good odds. It’s winter! I let my beard grow in. It’s summer! I better cut it down. This ain’t new.
Next is the general opinion of women on facial hair. The complaint that we’ve all gotten is that it’s “scratchy.” Untrue, and I have some pretty convincing evidence. Take your hand, put it on top of your head and feel your hair. Is it scratchy? Of course not, unless you’ve got a buzz cut. Stubble is abrasive, anything longer than ¼ inch or so is just hair. And like all hair it can be thick or thin, but it’s not going to be all that scratchy. Seriously ladies, have some patience and you’ll be fine.
I’m not going to argue to sing the praises of growing a beard, though I know that many men do. I don’t do it for aesthetic reasons, and if I did I’d probably being doing it wrong. It’s pure laziness. If you have an opinion on the look feel free to share, just don’t ask if “I’m trying…”
First off, people really need to stop saying, “are you trying to grow a beard?” No, and I never have. It takes effort to refrain from growing a beard, none to let one happen. There’s no trying involved, it's just a consequence of puberty.
Secondly, and this one is personal, don’t act surprised as if you’ve never seen me with a full beard. If you’ve seen me in the last decade, there’s a 50/50 chance you’ve seen me with one. If you don’t see me regularly perhaps it’s 40/60, but still, pretty good odds. It’s winter! I let my beard grow in. It’s summer! I better cut it down. This ain’t new.
Next is the general opinion of women on facial hair. The complaint that we’ve all gotten is that it’s “scratchy.” Untrue, and I have some pretty convincing evidence. Take your hand, put it on top of your head and feel your hair. Is it scratchy? Of course not, unless you’ve got a buzz cut. Stubble is abrasive, anything longer than ¼ inch or so is just hair. And like all hair it can be thick or thin, but it’s not going to be all that scratchy. Seriously ladies, have some patience and you’ll be fine.
I’m not going to argue to sing the praises of growing a beard, though I know that many men do. I don’t do it for aesthetic reasons, and if I did I’d probably being doing it wrong. It’s pure laziness. If you have an opinion on the look feel free to share, just don’t ask if “I’m trying…”
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Nope
Interesting fact: I’m not fun.
No, really. This isn’t one of those self-centered “woe is me, I’m not enjoying my life” kind of speeches either. It’s not an issue of me not having fun, though in general that’s true. My point is that I, as a person, am not any fun.
I don’t cut loose and have a good time; I’m not fun to be around. I’m not a ball and chain of suicidal depression either, it’s not like I bring down the party whenever I’m around. I’m not good at starting or finishing conversations, but I can talk in the middle. I’m amiable enough, it’s a work requirement. But I’m not any fun.
Look, we all know people who are fun. They’re the ones who suggest you go to the park at midnight and run around. They get goofy when you’re down to try and make you laugh. The people who’ll make an ass of themselves on the dance floor and not give a damn. They’ll get everybody to take a shot at a bar and make them thankful for it. Ask a stranger a random question just to make conversation. Some people are just a damn good time, and they make sure everybody has a good time with them.
Almost all kids are fun, albeit in their own way. Children laugh hundreds of times a day, primarily at inane bullshit. They skip, just for the hell of it. But the average adult smiles what, a half dozen, maybe dozen times a day? And most of mine are the polite “thanks for holding the door” variety. You have to wonder how fun people keep that attitude into adulthood.
Dude, I’m frickin boring. I go to bed early to read a book. If I find a tv show I like I’ll watch an entire season over a weekend. When I go out it’s for dinner or maybe a movie. My most interesting daily decision is whether I should shave or not. It’s my sasquatchian dilemma. None of this is fun. I’m an old man. Already.
Which works, since I’ve always been old. I’ll just have my kind of fun. Scotch.
No, really. This isn’t one of those self-centered “woe is me, I’m not enjoying my life” kind of speeches either. It’s not an issue of me not having fun, though in general that’s true. My point is that I, as a person, am not any fun.
I don’t cut loose and have a good time; I’m not fun to be around. I’m not a ball and chain of suicidal depression either, it’s not like I bring down the party whenever I’m around. I’m not good at starting or finishing conversations, but I can talk in the middle. I’m amiable enough, it’s a work requirement. But I’m not any fun.
Look, we all know people who are fun. They’re the ones who suggest you go to the park at midnight and run around. They get goofy when you’re down to try and make you laugh. The people who’ll make an ass of themselves on the dance floor and not give a damn. They’ll get everybody to take a shot at a bar and make them thankful for it. Ask a stranger a random question just to make conversation. Some people are just a damn good time, and they make sure everybody has a good time with them.
Almost all kids are fun, albeit in their own way. Children laugh hundreds of times a day, primarily at inane bullshit. They skip, just for the hell of it. But the average adult smiles what, a half dozen, maybe dozen times a day? And most of mine are the polite “thanks for holding the door” variety. You have to wonder how fun people keep that attitude into adulthood.
Dude, I’m frickin boring. I go to bed early to read a book. If I find a tv show I like I’ll watch an entire season over a weekend. When I go out it’s for dinner or maybe a movie. My most interesting daily decision is whether I should shave or not. It’s my sasquatchian dilemma. None of this is fun. I’m an old man. Already.
Which works, since I’ve always been old. I’ll just have my kind of fun. Scotch.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Charles' Soliloquy
I remember being scared, wondering if I was going to act “appropriately.” Stupid. My son dies and my biggest worry is what other people are going to think about my reaction, how I behave. As if it matters. I kept telling myself that nobody’s going to care, nobody’s going to judge me. But that didn’t really help. People do care, I could feel them watching me, watching us. Wondering. “Are they going to be okay?” It's a raw time to be questioned.
I didn’t cry at first, and was mortified that I wouldn’t be able to. That’s what I’ve heard anyway, that sometimes people can’t cry when they lose a child, they just hold it all in. I didn’t want to do that, be that guy. But I didn’t want to be too weepy either, you know? I mean, there was Melinda to think about, and I figured she’d cry for both of us. And she did, we both did. We cried plenty.
But I didn’t have to cry too much or too long, I think. So yeah, that’s what I was worried about, not being able to cry or only being able to cry or… I think I was expecting at least one of those things to happen. It might be worse though, processing loss the way you’re supposed to, the guilt of outliving your son. Grief. I can still laugh; did you know that? It scared me the first time, the sound of it. My own voice seemed jarring in my own head, like I shouldn’t be allowed.
Yeah, actually a buddy of mine told me one the other day. What do you call it when you film pedestrians? Footage! Right? Get it? Eh, it’s pretty awful, maybe you had to be there. It was kind of funny. I can’t tell jokes, never could. Ask Mel, she’ll tell you. But Michael liked my jokes. Maybe I’m only good at little kid jokes.
What I don’t understand, continue to not understand is how I’m okay. I’m dealing with everything just the way I’m supposed to. Taking whatever steps they tell me to take. It’s not even really that hard. It’s not good, I don’t like it. It’s not like I’m happy, or anything like that. But I know the situation, that what happened wasn’t anybody’s fault, that I won’t ever be the same. Don’t want to be the same. Can’t be the same. But I’ll be okay. You don’t get better, I don’t think. You do move on and it get’s a little more bearable. I guess. But there’s not a fix.
I just don’t like that I’m okay. I don’t think I should be. It’s what everybody is telling me is good, I’m doing good. It doesn’t feel good to do good, not like this. Not without Mike. So I wake up sometimes at night and I have my milk, go back to bed, and have another day tomorrow.
I didn’t cry at first, and was mortified that I wouldn’t be able to. That’s what I’ve heard anyway, that sometimes people can’t cry when they lose a child, they just hold it all in. I didn’t want to do that, be that guy. But I didn’t want to be too weepy either, you know? I mean, there was Melinda to think about, and I figured she’d cry for both of us. And she did, we both did. We cried plenty.
But I didn’t have to cry too much or too long, I think. So yeah, that’s what I was worried about, not being able to cry or only being able to cry or… I think I was expecting at least one of those things to happen. It might be worse though, processing loss the way you’re supposed to, the guilt of outliving your son. Grief. I can still laugh; did you know that? It scared me the first time, the sound of it. My own voice seemed jarring in my own head, like I shouldn’t be allowed.
Yeah, actually a buddy of mine told me one the other day. What do you call it when you film pedestrians? Footage! Right? Get it? Eh, it’s pretty awful, maybe you had to be there. It was kind of funny. I can’t tell jokes, never could. Ask Mel, she’ll tell you. But Michael liked my jokes. Maybe I’m only good at little kid jokes.
What I don’t understand, continue to not understand is how I’m okay. I’m dealing with everything just the way I’m supposed to. Taking whatever steps they tell me to take. It’s not even really that hard. It’s not good, I don’t like it. It’s not like I’m happy, or anything like that. But I know the situation, that what happened wasn’t anybody’s fault, that I won’t ever be the same. Don’t want to be the same. Can’t be the same. But I’ll be okay. You don’t get better, I don’t think. You do move on and it get’s a little more bearable. I guess. But there’s not a fix.
I just don’t like that I’m okay. I don’t think I should be. It’s what everybody is telling me is good, I’m doing good. It doesn’t feel good to do good, not like this. Not without Mike. So I wake up sometimes at night and I have my milk, go back to bed, and have another day tomorrow.
Atheists
I don’t understand passionate atheists. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly understand atheism in a very general sense. What I don’t understand is how some people are ardent and motivated about their atheism.
I understand Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, et al wanting to spread their beliefs. You believe in God, you have a passion for your faith, you’ll want to share that. But atheism is the rejection of deities. How can you be passionate about not believing in something?
“I don’t believe in God.” Good deal, whatever. But that’s it, isn’t it? How does that conversation go further? Why do you have to justify it? Being emotional driven by a belief makes sense, I just don’t understand the drive for a disbelief.
The only way I can make sense of it is that the ardent atheists are more anti-God than disbelievers in God (though they certainly are both.) You can have a passion against deities and those who believe in them. That makes sense to me. Passion ought to be proactive in some way.
I may just be missing something and atheists have a point. They certainly have every right to believe or disbelieve in what they like, and share that with others. I guess it’s like any religion (non-religion;) I’d rather you mostly keep it to yourself. Don’t hide it or be ashamed, feel free to be open and honest. But if you preach about anything, it’s very likely you have little of consequence to say.
I understand Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, et al wanting to spread their beliefs. You believe in God, you have a passion for your faith, you’ll want to share that. But atheism is the rejection of deities. How can you be passionate about not believing in something?
“I don’t believe in God.” Good deal, whatever. But that’s it, isn’t it? How does that conversation go further? Why do you have to justify it? Being emotional driven by a belief makes sense, I just don’t understand the drive for a disbelief.
The only way I can make sense of it is that the ardent atheists are more anti-God than disbelievers in God (though they certainly are both.) You can have a passion against deities and those who believe in them. That makes sense to me. Passion ought to be proactive in some way.
I may just be missing something and atheists have a point. They certainly have every right to believe or disbelieve in what they like, and share that with others. I guess it’s like any religion (non-religion;) I’d rather you mostly keep it to yourself. Don’t hide it or be ashamed, feel free to be open and honest. But if you preach about anything, it’s very likely you have little of consequence to say.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Why it sucks to be me
I need about $5,000. Okay, that’s not even remotely true, but I’d like around that amount of play money. If I had five grand I could pretty much buy all of the little things that have been popping up on my wishlist. These would be the more modest items, it’s not like I’d get the new house or car or anything like that.
Just at a ramble I’d get a beer brewing kit, a smoker accessory for my weber, maybe a rotisserie attachment, fly fishing gear, and a bunch of kitchen stuff. You know you’re in for a life of bachelorhood when you learn how to cook. Because let’s be honest, if you know how to cook why would you ever not be single? (zing!)
But here’s the problem, if I had $5,000 of play money, I’d use it for something responsible like paying down student debt. Damn me and my practibility…
Just at a ramble I’d get a beer brewing kit, a smoker accessory for my weber, maybe a rotisserie attachment, fly fishing gear, and a bunch of kitchen stuff. You know you’re in for a life of bachelorhood when you learn how to cook. Because let’s be honest, if you know how to cook why would you ever not be single? (zing!)
But here’s the problem, if I had $5,000 of play money, I’d use it for something responsible like paying down student debt. Damn me and my practibility…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)