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Monday, September 25, 2006

I’m Married to Emeril.

I'm not a cook. Joe is not a cook. Joe watches two episodes of "Emeril Live" and thinks he's a gourmet chef. Dog eats raw chicken. House nearly catches on fire. Grease burns on my arms.

All this for one delicious meal of chicken parmesan. Read on.

So, yesterday (Sunday) was a nice and relaxing day for both of us. Joe was off of work, I had no other obligations, so it was one of those sit-back-and-do-nothing kind of Sundays - the kind where you don't even brush your teeth until the afternoon. I went to church yesterday morning, so I DID brush my teeth before noon, but I digress.

After putting up all of my fall decorations and deciding that I am, in fact, Martha Stewart, Jr., I decided to go one step further and cook a meal for my man. You see, I don't cook. It's not that I can't cook, it's just that I don't wanna. I don't wanna and you're not gonna make me. I think cooking is a major PITA (if you don't know what that means, think about it for a while). I mean, you spend quite a bit of $$ on all the ingredients, you spend hours preparing the meal and then cleaning up afterwards and all for what? So your man can tell you how much he loves you while burping and farting out the meal you so lovingly just made for him? Eh, it's not worth it!

All of that aside, I started preparing my meal. A few months ago (the last time I cooked dinner, in fact), I took a chance and made chicken parmesan. Not to brag on myself, but that was the best darn chicken parmesan I've ever eaten. And I'm a chicken parmesan eating fool, so I know what's good and what's not. I lovingly laid out the raw chicken - yum, E.Coli. I set up a separate station for the egg wash (how technical), and a separate station for the bread crumbs - I even crumbled up some Ritz crackers in it just for that extra crunch. I'm ghetto like that.

So, I went to the sink to wash my hands for the 10,000th time - yes, I'm a bit OCD when it comes to raw chicken. As I turned back around, I saw a yellow puff of something whisk past me. Was it a ghost, perhaps? Maybe an explosion of some sort? No, of course not, it was a dog - a little yellow dog - and he had something hanging from his mouth - something slimy, something infested with E.Coli, something repulsive - something like mommy and daddy's dinner. Yes, the little bastard stole a chicken breast with lightning speed and swallowed it whole. After I finally suppressed my urge to throw up, I hurried to the computer to make sure it was OK.

Did you know that dogs can eat raw chicken and other raw meats and have no adverse side effects? Bacteria doesn't affect them like it affects us. In fact, many people feed their dogs a diet that consists of only raw meats and vegetables. So, there's your veterinarian lesson for the day. Do with it what you wish.

After the dog/chicken catastrophe, Joe walks in the kitchen and starts to act like Emeril. He doesn't say "BAM" or anything stupid like that, but he acts like the resident expert of the kitchen. Mind you he's probably never cooked an entire meal in his life, and he's had no formal training whatsoever, but since he's seen two episodes of Emeril Live, he knows how to pan sear chicken. So, I just stand there rolling my eyes at him the entire time because I like doing that sort of thing, and he just stands there letting hot grease splat all over his arms, you know, because that's what Emeril does.

After I took back over the responsibilities of searing the chicken, Joe does the unthinkable and starts telling me how long to leave the chicken on each side, la da da da da. So, not being in the right frame of mind, I flipped the chicken over, and splattered about 7 cups full of grease on my arm. Well, more like a tiny dot of grease, but it hurt like hell, and now I have an ugly welt/scar on my forearm. I should join a bike gang, I'd fit in perfectly now. I'll buy one of those cool t-shirts that says "The bi*ch fell off" and wear leather pants with spiked boots. And instead of saying my scar is from grease, I'll just say it's from a gang fight in Tijuana - that sounds more interesting.

I guess I left out the part where the stove caught on fire. Yes, the remaining grease that didn't splatter on my arm spilled out on the stove and caught on fire. So, instead of doing the smart thing and acting calmly, I just managed to stand there saying "Oh, oh, oh my God, oh, uh oh, oh!" I'm not sure what Joe did in that amount of time, but the fire was extinguished and all was well. He decided to leave me alone after that.

You're probably saying to yourself - oh my, their chicken was destroyed - uh huh, my friend, it was delicious! Just as good as the first time I made it. Joe ate two pieces of it, and I had the one piece that I butchered as it was cooking because I'm always paranoid that the chicken isn't cooked thoroughly. I used to cook it for so long that it would come off of the grill or out of the oven the size of a pea. Now I know better and cook it for just the right amount of time - you know, the three or four times I've cooked it during our three year marriage.

Oh, Cosmo is OK, too! :)


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