Tickled Tuesday: Cooking Mishaps
Cooking brings out our most primal instincts.
It demands we call our courage and creativity to the kitchen floor when
we stare down chicken legs, soy sauce packets and day old rice in a
fridge that needs to be cleaned with our family clamoring behind us
demanding something hot and delicious.
Cooking creates a cadence we can easily get dance to.
The emulsifying of the oils and the vinegars are too similar to the
cymbal being struck and ringing out its tone, lingering in the air.
Making its mark, creating a base.
The chopping of the vegetables, much like the beating of the drums, it raises our blood pressure slightly beating in tempo with our heart.
The sizzling and popping of the caramelized onions in the oh-so-good-but-oh-so-bad-for-you butter is singing a rhumba to my too soft
hips, begging them to sway with
Oh the cutting, the ripping and tearing and dominance over the once
living piece of meat is one of the most beautiful things I have ever
witnessed. It is a glorious and breathtaking moment where we stand, foolishly albeit, at the top of our food chain and skewer, slice, filet, or hack this slab of meat into submission.
We slowly saw into the flesh,
bringing about one of the most sweet-sounding, rhythmic ,
symphonious noises that begs our bodies to become one and begin
our war chant, begin our war dance.
Begging us to declare this knife as our weapon, declare our counter space as our point of strategizing, demanding we see our pots and pans, our snacks and meals as the wounded, as our battles, some lost, but most won. But mainly these creations are our armor.
The table. The sweet unassuming table we must acknowledge is our homecoming. Our time to shine. Our moment to be adorned with the most precious medals.
Compliments of silence because everyone is stuffing their face too full, or hushed belching because they are stuffing their faces too fast.
Or the creme de la creme, the moment we've all been waiting for, the most elusive prize ever, a non-fished for genuine bonafide compliment. Like a "Oh. My. God. This is the best dish ever" or a simple "Screw Betty Crocker, you're numero uno now! You rock".
Those are the moments we cling to when we cook for our loved ones.
Unfortunately, that is not how all of our cooking experiments turn out.
Sometimes, it's a hope and a prayer that no one gets sick and we're just grateful we didn't order pizza again.
I am for the most part a good, creative cook but sometimes my desire to be done outweighs whether or not it should be done.
Sudden onset cases of idiocy also happens to me too.
I was hankering for some comfort food that was easy to prepare this past fall.
The only thing that popped into my head was sloppy joes, and it sounded sooooo good.
My mother makes the best sloppy joes ever.
No cans or premade sauces from my momma.
There's a thing about moms cooking, no matter what you do or how close you come it will never taste the exact same as your mothers'.
Moms' will always taste better.
I decided to try and make my moms sloppy joes one day.
And I'll tell you right now, I got nowhere near her sloppy joe induced happiness.
First I used turkey meat. Which I love, we all do in my household actually. But I already changed a main ingredient and was leary about anymore substitutions.
However, when it came time to put in the brown sugar I realized I was out.
I already had the meat done, the tater tots rocking in the oven, the buns warming, the condiments out, so I figured I'd find a substitution. It just seemed easier.
But l could find nothing comparable.
White sugar no.
Hot sauce no.
Pancake syrup....should have said no.
The common sense part of my brain shut down and decided YES for the pancake syrup.
I had worked all day, it was late, my family was hungry, how bad could it be right?
My thought process (flawed, yes) was that it was sweet and not powerful and a little couldn't hurt.
So I put a little in, then a little more, and after a while it became a lot more. So I had turkey meat, throughly cooked, swimming in weird spices and being drowned by the brown sticky, asphyxiator.
My poor family.
I bravely put on my warrior face, chomped down on a sandwich and let the sticky, putrid glob slide to the back of my throat.
Oh, my familys' reaction?
Well, I didn't tell them about my substitution while evil, it was also necessary.
They continued the first part of our meal in silence. No longer taking hearty big bites but now small, gingerly bites looking with trepidation between the joe mix, me and their sandwiches.
When finally, my sweet no nonsense taking mom, puts down her bun, and says "Did you use any part of my recipe"?
And we burst out giggling and decided to order pizza when my eat anything pup turned down the meat mixture with extreme discrimination.
My family loved me enough to tell me my cooking sucked. l would always prefer to be surrounded by the truth tellers rather than the people worried about hurting my feelings.
I found out that day, that sometimes substituting is really just subtracting from the recipe.
And to never use freaking pancake syrup in sloppy joes obviously.
If it doesn't feel right don't do it folks.
Until next time!
This prompt was brought to us courtesy of the very awesome lndecisively Blogging, who hosts Tickled Tuesdays!
Check out her blog & the others who linked up HERE!