My crappy cooking show.

I guess I'm more like my father than either of us would think. For those of you who don't know my father, he is a great man, EXTREMELY intelligent, loving, and perpetually happy. He also has this little habit of talking to himself. I guess everyone does it a bit, but my dad talks to himself probably more than most. Not excessively. On the bell curve of talking to yourself, he's probably in the μ+σ (mu plus sigma) to μ+2σ (mu plus two sigma) range:



Incidentally, the Greek alphabet is the most practical thing I learned my 3 semesters of calculus at South Suburban.

Anyway, earlier I was preparing some cheesy potatoes for Christmas Eve with Kathryn's family tomorrow, and I realized that I talk to myself. Not a lot, but enough that it was kind of eye-opening.

Let me go off course for a minute here. Talking to yourself is something that "they" say smart people do. You know that vague, "Oh well they say that you shouldn't blah blah blah," or, "Yeah they were saying that this summer is gonna be HOT!" or any other very general statement that people say that they want to put a nonexistent expert behind. So you think, "Well they say smart people talk to themselves... I talk to myself...therefore I must be smart!" But in reality "they" are people that talk to themselves and are trying to make people think they are smart. When I started losing my hair in my late teens, people would tell me, "Oh well they say that bald men look more distinguished." That's all well and good except that "they" are insecure bald men who started this whole silly mess about being distinguished. Also, I wasn't a 50 year old man submitting my life's work for peer review... I was 17! You know what I say? THEY suck.

So back to me talking to myself -

I was preparing the potatoes, and it took about 45 minutes. In that 45 minutes I said all of 5 things. If you had a microphone in the kitchen, this is what you would have heard.

"How in the fuck do you LOSE a cheese-grater?" Because it was $3 cheaper for the big ol' slab of cheddar than the pre-shredded bag, I had to grate that whole monster down. Unfortunately for me, the cheese-grater grew little cheesy legs and ran off to hide somewhere.

"You little piece of shit cheese-grater." This is how I say hi to the cheese-grater when I do find it. Out loud.

"Oh that's a nice little chunk of cheddar." Take that literally. You gotta eat the little nub of cheese at the end. It was good.

"AHHH That's fuckin' sick." (TWICE) Let me explain. I'm a vegetarian so I obviously don't cook with meat. I almost always cook things that can be tasted at virtually every stage of preparation. Do you want a taste of the pasta sauce even though it's only been cooking for a minute? Go for it. It's just cold and unseasoned. Now I have this up-until-now perfectly fine habit of licking spoons that I scoop things with and then rinsing them off. Just for a little taste. Today, though, I was cooking with butter and sour cream. Add this all up and it equals me licking a big old nasty spoonful of butter (SICK) and then like a dumbass, a big ol' hefty spoonful of sour cream.

Both times, I talked to myself. Out loud. After midnight. In the kitchen. Alone.

Anyway, they say that guys named Bebo that have blogs are super cool and can hold their own with a blade. Watch out for that.