Fine! I give in!

There have been several individuals that have repeatedly accosted me over my supposed “secret recipe book.”  No matter how much I repeat myself, they don’t get the point: recipes are for bakers and sober people.  As you all know, I am neither.

That said, it took a request from one of my wife’s coworkers (and the fact that going this extra mile may, in fact, help me land a job with them) to get me to write this down.  By “write this down,” I meant take a large portion of my “mental health day,” get bombed, and pretend like I have any goddamn idea how to write a recipe down…  so your results may vary.

Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhh… it’s the best I could Google. Bear with me, and enjoy the ride.

Tropical Chili

Seeing how there is no recipe for what I’m doing (as I truthfully never know precisely what I’m doing at any given time for any culinary task)–  I’m just going to write it out as I go as a set of guidelines/steps to follow…  in drunkenese.

Stuff you need

• 2lbs of ground turkey (yeah, it’s one of those chili concoctions)
• Chili Powder
• Paprika
• One small/mediumish onion
• Garlic
• 2 12oz cans mango
• 1 20oz can pineapple tidbits  (yes, I said “can,” don’t judge me)
• 1 12oz can diced tomato (obviously, if you were going to a competition, you modify this to use fresh)
• Dry navy beans  (if you don’t have time for that shit, any canned variety will work—except black beans.  Too much flavor.)
• 1 12oz can corn, drained
• 3-4 medium poblanos
• 2-3 big bell peppers (red, yellow, orange… NOT green)
• Cinnamon
• Crushed red pepper
• Season salt

Optional stuff

• Corn starch
• Brown sugar
• Stupidly hot peppers

Start off with a big ass crock pot.  I’m not talking those pansy two quart size ones, I’m talking a crock pot.  Obviously you can do this on the stove in a large kettle, but I’m doing this the slackinese way.  Rinse a little under a pound of beans and throw them in the crock.  Yes, this is like the second time I’ve ever used my kitchen scale, but I digress.  Turn it to high, add mango and pineapple juice.  You can throw in the can of diced tomato at this time.

Grab a knife.  Dice up all peppers, and make sure you’re wearing gloves.  I know, this is a big “no shit” moment, but I’ve burned my corneas three times (all three followed immediately by “dammit, should have known better.”)  Seriously, just scrubbing your hands with dish detergent won’t cut it.  Add those to the crock pot.  Toss in a decent amount of chili powder and paprika.  Add a little crushed red.  Don’t go nuts with it, there’s time for that later.

Alright, next up!  Grab your handy dandy food processor.  Don’t have one?  This next part is gonna suck for you.  Finely dice the onion and garlic.  Figure the amount of garlic you’re gonna clean and dice should be about 1/3 the amount of onion you have.  This isn’t a weight nor a volume call here– it’s called eyeball measurement.  Sure, I guess you could substitute dried/powdered onion/garlic—but that’s kind of the difference between slackinese and outright lazy.  Don’t be lazy.

Add a “blupp” of olive oil to a large pan, or decently sized kettle.  Yes, that’s a technical measurement.  Combine ground turkey with the finely chopped onion/garlic combo, then toss in a lot of chili powder and paprika.  Think it’s enough?  It’s not, because you’ll add more while browning the meat.  Also add a little bit of cinnamon.  Here’s the stage where you’d add firepower to it in the form of Habanero peppers, or crushed red, or Serrano/Thai chilis (thereby creating Tropic Thunder).  Do not use Jalapenos, their tartness will throw it off.   Also add in some season salt to taste.

Combine the entire contents of the pan with what’s in the crock pot.  Also, add in the pineapple tidbits.  Slice the mango, and add that.  Drained corn?  Yup.  Stir it up, throw a lid on the summbitch, and walk the hell away.

Total time elapsed:  I have no damn idea.

It really doesn’t matter.  I’m halfway drunk and you’re not.

Now, you’re probably wondering if there’s another way to do this if you don’t have all damn day to wait for slackinese magic to occur.  Sure—you substitute the dry beans for canned (drained, obviously), and you brown the meat with the peppers.  Add beans, fruit, juice, and tomato after the turkey’s sufficiently browned.

But wait, you’re a tree hugger that doesn’t eat tasty animals!  Well this recipe was originally executed on some Lenten Friday, and instead of turkey—try a shitload of quinoa… and triple the amount of beans.  You also have to really know your spices.  No, I don’t remember what I did; I wing it every time I’m in front of my stove.

Anyway.  Leave the crock pot alone for a couple hours, but you might want to give it a stir around hour 2-3.  Or not.  That’s the beauty of a crock pot.  About an hour before you’re ready to eat, make sure you have a stir and a taste test.  Too hot?  Add some brown sugar—very sparingly.  Test and stir.  Too weak?  Add some cayenne, Tabasco, whatever extra firepower you have handy.  Too much liquid?  Dust in some cornstarch to thicken it up.  This is also the point to test the beans, since they’re going to take the longest to cook.

Your concoction should be done within 4-5 hours.  Again, none of this is exact—so you will need to tweak it towards the end.

In other words, if you need an exact recipe to make something edible—this is not a project for you.
However, if you even have the faintest idea of what to do in a kitchen—this is easier than pie.

… it absolutely has to be, because I can’t make a pie.

Unplug.

Of Sanctimony, Hypocrisy, and Food

My day was brought to a screeching halt by a blast from the past.  Many moons ago (and perhaps even in my near future), I ran tables and/or slung drinks to make ends meet.  Granted, waiting is a job that has its ups and downs because people have the tendency to be bastard coated bastards with bastard filling.  In fact, I forged my delightful sense of misanthropy while working in restaurants– only to have it redefined while working at the job that cost me Jill.  By the way, that job involved taking away things from people who didn’t pay for them.

Digression aside, being a waiter and a bartender for the majority of my collegiate tenure (and yes, I should have been given tenure) has left me with a great deal of patience and understanding when I go out to eat– tip wise.  Sure, like other veterans of the industry, I invariably compare the server/bartender to my own skills– but when it comes down to paying… well I remember what it was like, so you have to be just short of a walking abortion sprayed by skunks for me to tip under 15%.

I think it’s happened twice… ever… and I was still embarrassed even though it was justified.  Now, here’s where I’m going on the offensive– because my latent server rage has been sparked.

… I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s not on the damn menu!  I’ll have a double!!!

What I read today went well above and beyond the normal douchebaggery and into that of legendary hypocrisy.  I mean seriously, in these here United States– servers and bartenders get shat on for $2.83 an hour (on average), and make a living on their tips.  Every cent they are tipped is how they pay their bills, because their paychecks are nonexistent.

This fact is common knowledge among the general public, and among the visitors from other countries– where servers and barkeeps make real wages (but this is another rant entirely).  These facts known, a pastor decided to up the douche factor to 11 after a trip to Assholebees.

Check out this sanctimonious bullshit.

There is one way to take this. This is a deliberate insult. The post-haste apology, laden with lies, fools only the sheeple that you preached to, “Pastor” Alois Bell.

Further exposition aside, let’s break out the cannons, shall we?  “Pastor” Alois Bell, you took the time to highlight your hypocrisy by adding your title after signing your  name.  Think about it, there’s no reason to sign “pastor” like that unless it was added as a sanctimonious afterthought.  So seriously, her little lip-service “apology”– total bullshit.  Usually you have to watch bad wrestling to find acting this transparent– and the internet thought so too.  Check out the overwhelming response on her page—  oh wait, it’s gone.  (Yes, I’m kicking myself for not screencapping it earlier today.  My apologies.)

I wonder who took the listing down, Ms. Bell or the site administrator?  Money is not on the administrator because her church’s website is strangely missing too.  This “pastor” is doing damage control on her own behalf, and for no other reason.  Before we get up in arms that this Alois Bell is helping to guide the hearts and minds of a congregation– she was only leading the gullible minds of less than 20 people (according to The Smoking Gun).  Sounds to me like she used her “church” as a tax dodge, and signed up friends and family to get a congregation.  Now that her hypocrisy is up, look what’s missing– almost everything that could wag a finger at her.  My my.

So really, Alois?  This is your apology, when your initial shitfit got the waitress fired?  Wait.. wait, let me back up– you initially demanded that the entire staff be fired because your hypocrisy became common knowledge?  Yes, we’re supposed to just take your apology at face value because you signed “pastor” to your holier-than-thou insult.  I’ve heard more credible lies out of toddlers caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

Except you’re not cute.

Your actions are inexcusable.  Likewise, a hearty double deuce to Applebee’s–  Once again, a corporate entity has proven that they value the money of a deplorable individual over the work of an employee.  Darden Corporation (Red Lobster, Olive Garden, etc.) is the same way (I know from experience), as are numerous other corporate/franchised restaurants.  The customer can be a walking miscarriage like Alois Bell, and act inappropriately at every turn– and they will fire their employees just to keep their money flowing in the door.

I sincerely hope you can never show your face in public again, let alone preach to a congregation, you parsimonious hypocrite.

Alois, who in the Nine Levels of Hell do you think you are?  Seriously?  Your actions are disgusting, your lies are further preposterous, and you destroyed your own reputation– then lied after the fact with a halfassed apology.  It’s people like you that give practicing Christians a bad name– and I’m damn sure that your voicemail message has some trite bullshit about being “highly favored” or “have a blessed day.”  Your words do not match your actions, and I think the final insult in the equation is that you’ve reproduced… not once… not twice… but three times.  I’m sure your children conduct themselves as deplorably as you do. 

… and by the way– it’s nice that you give your proper tithe.  Let me break out the golfer’s clap for you.  You forgot that God doesn’t need to pay bills or rent, like the waitress you got fired– nor the staff you tried to get fired.

I hope you never show your face in public again without receiving your justly deserved etiquette tips.
You clearly need them.

Unplug.

Lactose Lunacy

I feel like I’ve gotten away from my original purpose of this whole…. thing I’m doing here.  I started this whole… thing… to stave off insanity because I was a feckless gimp recovering from wrist surgery.  I couldn’t do a damn thing, and I was going crazy.  Crazier.  Right, I was going crazier than before, because it was a matter of being stir crazy, but enough of the history lesson.  Lately, I have been given to ranting– rather than keeping up with my best trait, mocking the outlandishly dumb shit that I tend to do (sober or otherwise).  Speaking of shit, you’ve already skimmed the title– and you know that this is about to rapidly go face-first into the tank.

The smarter of you have already Sherlock Holmes-ed that I’m kinda lactose intolerant.  Of all types of intolerant-types, this is probably the best to be.  I suppose I could hop up on a soap box and start mocking the religious, racial, sexual, and whatever intolerant types there are out there– but let’s face it:  those types of “people” weren’t raised right and seriously should go take a shower with a hairdryer.  Anyway.

Lucky for me, I’m not full-blown lactose intolerant–  I can mow down on bricks of cheese better than any rascal-riding lardball you’ve ever seen.  Damn good thing too, cheese is like crack to me, and if I were as “sensitive” as my kid sister– my ass would double as a super soaker of the stank variety.  Savor that.

Aren’t you so glad I’m back to my ol’ self again?

Me too.

There are several things I have to avoid, unless I want to feel like an alien baby is trying to explosively exit my anus.  Luckily, I’ve never been much of a milk drinker.  Unluckily, there is cream (or milk if your bar/bartender sucks) in White Russians.   Don’t get me started on my caffeine addiction, because downing a latte is about as effective as doing Ex-Lax shots.  Still, this is manageable.

I’ve got to avoid ice cream, which tends to be a royal bitch because Cortana loves the stuff (and so do I).  Avoiding it tends to be *ahem* problematic at best, because she’s got a sweet tooth and it’s kind of our thing to shop at Wegmans after hours.  You want a challenge?  Pry my sweetheart away from the fracking ice cream section empty handed.  Still, I can cope…  sometimes.

However…  since Cortana and I have been together two years (shocker, I know!), I whipped up a fantastic mushroom alfredo sauce to top the occasion.  You know, her request, and me being the loving guy that I am– I hopped-to like the culinary commando that I am.

Uh huh, just like a third world kid on a soccer field– I should have known better.

For those of you who don’t know a broiler from a baster, the primary ingredient in alfredo sauce is…  milk or cream.  Oh hell yeah, the mushroom alfredo was fantabulous.

However.  The porcelain goddess has yet to forgive me, and my innards are totally on her side.

For those of you about to tell me to go find some goddamn Lactaid–  you know what?  Just shut up.

Just…  Shut up.

Unplug.

One More Time…

Yes, we have yet another song-inspired title.  Last time I celebrated the impending doom of my cast, and the countdown is now measured in hours instead of days… or weeks like when I began this whole writing odyssey.  In retrospect, it’s been a fun trip (for me at least), but it won’t be over once this damn fiberglass exoskeleton is cut from my body.

Yes, I’m celebrating the last days of my maul-whatever-the-hell-looks-tasty “diet.”  I put on over 20 freaking pounds since my happy ass went under the knife.  I was down to roughly 8% bodyfat when I initially lost the fight with that cursed refrigerator…  and this translates into an almost 25lb gain (I don’t want to even think about the real numerical damage done) since my last act of testosterone-fueled badassery.  Note to all you other guys out there who consider yourselves built like Terminators– knee-jerk reactions involving large objects may give you momentary glory, but you’re more likely to end up one of those dumpy bastards who could be mistaken for a perma-virgin with a WoW subscription.  Consider yourselves warned, again.

Ok, I can’t keep a train of thought to save my life right now.  I’m just stoked that I’m soon to be free, and I’m celebrating with a food orgy in my mouth.   Yes, I intend to swallow every last bit of it.  Savor that mental image, because there’s gonna be more carnivorous goodness going down my gullet than a frat mattress that realizes that they can’t hurt their reputation any further.   That’s kind of where I’m sitting right now with the whole waistline crisis thing.  Unlike that saucy mental image (that I know you’re still reeling from), I have no lasting stigma (nor disease).

My impending kamikaze diet won’t start tomorrow, no– because I’m going on vacation this weekend.  This is going to be a weekend of gut-busting awesomeness, complete with a stop to Primanti Brothers.  If any of you Yinzers out there have any other kinds of destinations in the greater Pittsburgh area that are of this ilk, comment here and put me in the loop.  I’m serious, last time I asked for input, I got three replies.  Three.  United States voter turnout is better than that, and it’s pretty tough to be lazier than that.  Anyway.

The first fix I had to get one last fill of was none other than a favorite from my hometown– AJ’s Texas Hots.

No Greek dog, no chili dog, no saucy wiener greater... than these Texas Hots.

These artery-destroying babies were handed down by God Himself to Johnny Colera of Jamestown, NY in 1936.  Many locals call all of them “Johnny’s” for short, and used to bitterly argue over which location made the best ones (both were owned/run by different branches of the same family).  We purists know AJ’s is the real deal.  Johnny’s Hots changed their recipe when they decided to franchise out, and the locals who’ve been eating them their entire lives know.   They committed rivalry suicide, and now there’s no freaking contest (but believe you me, they are still freaking epic if that’s all you can get your dirty mitts on).

Yes, my lackadaisical eating patterns are over after this weekend.  In the meantime, I’m going to be indulging like Charlie Sheen in Tony Montana’s private stockpile.  It’s not like I can do any more damage over the course of a weekend.

That and I’m just getting my body ready to drop a holy shitload of weight over the next month.  For those of you curious as to what I’m plotting, I’ll post the diet later– as if I needed to further seal the fact that I’ve lost my freaking mind.  I’m merely 13 hours from having an elbow again, and maybe Jill too.

Unplug.