Friday, April 06, 2007

It is hard out here

We done got earjacked and they dropped our sixteen on his brokeback narrow six, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers
(Can you tell somebody checked into Urban Dictionary?)

A new malady
After watching “American Idol” this week, I didn’t feel good this morning. I woke up with severe Sanjaya-tis: My hair was goofy and my voice was shot.

Comeback kid
Monday’s “American Idol” featured the great Tony Bennett. At the low point of his career, Tony had no hits, he was bald and addicted to cocaine. In fact he was one Internet naked crotch shot away from being Britney Spears.

Not good
Sinjaya made it through again on “American Idol” If Sanjaya keeps hanging on despite doing horribly, he is going to be named to President Bush’s foreign policy team.
In Chicago, a coyote waltzed into a Quiznos sandwich shop, climbed into the drink cooler and lay down. A visiting New Yorker exclaimed; “Wow, your rats are as big as our rats.”

Just not the same for some reason
Neurological researchers at Johns Hopkins are working on why we can’t tickle ourselves. After this preeminent work they’ll investigate why playing hide and seek by yourself isn’t as fun.

Sweden will not allow a heavy metal-loving couple to name their child after the band Metallica. Sweden, oddly enough, will allow them to name their child Hoobastank.

Since you asked:

Have you ever seen a show where Emerill Lagase soufflé drops? No. Have you ever seen Bobby Flay scorch a burger? No. Have you ever seen ridiculously spunky and ubiquitous Rachel Ray break a sauce or a yoke? No. Why? Because their shows are edited, that’s why.

It is my cooking contention that you can’t make something good until you’ve made it bad. You have to have a basis for comparison.

Having said that, I made the single biggest bone-head cooking foul up ever last night. And in front of a huge crowd. Sigh.

We were invited over to our friend’s house last night for steaks and margaritas, both of which were awesome. I offered to bring my grilled corn salsa and make a wine/mushroom reduction sauce for the steaks.

Needless to say I made the grilled corn salsa ahead of time at my house. Grilled six ears to perfection, sliced off the kernels into a bowl with coarsely chopped cilantro, slightly sweated chopped red onions, a dollop of mayo, a couple tablespoons of chopped green chilis, lime juice, dash of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, Kosher salt and fresh ground pepper with avocado slices on top for presentation. Served with blue corn chips, of course.

That was fine. Great in fact. But I decided to make the mushroom wine reduction sauce at their house.

The mushrooms went great. I even impressed with lighting a splash of vodka and flaring up the blue flame with that flip-the-mushrooms-in-the-pan cool move. Then I added the red wine/soy sauce/beef broth/garlic/a little tomato sauce and simmered hard. It was on its way to being a glowing coffee/amber spoon coating perfection of a reduction sauce when I got the brains storm to do another fireworks show for the kids with more vodka. That was fine also.

But then I got the brainstorm to light the vodka, as the pan was full and I didn’t want to spill it, with a match instead of the gas flame, as I should have. Did I go find a match? No, genius boy here grabbed a nearby candle and tilted the pan toward it. All of the damn scented candle wax spilled into my pan. The frickin’ sauce tasted just like lavender soap.

I had to toss it.

I ate my steak and drank my Maggie with a poopy diaper, as my buddy Ray says.

Good night and good Hoobastanking.

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It is so funny. It reminds me of the great Anne Lamont in “Bird by Bird” when she tells of her three-year-old boy trying to use a toy key to unlock a door and finally, in frustration, he yells “Sh*t!”

Mommy gives him the lecture about not using bad words and they should both try to do better. He says yes and then asks;

“Don’t you want to know why I said the bad word?”

“Why, honey?”

“Because the f*cking key didn’t work.”