Guy in Toronto does a very nice pot roast in his car: Linky-dink.
I’m not saying a word about the weather out here in SoCal, because it’s about the nicest summer I’ve ever experienced.
However, I will bitch about my dad this morning. He doesn’t eat enough, no appetite, no motivation to cook, probably shouldn’t be driving to nearby restaurants. So, I offer to make breakfast for him - bacon, eggs, toast, OJ, and whatever else he likes.
It takes him five frickin’ minutes of back and forth (well, I don’t want to put you to any trouble, it’s really very sweet of you, but it’s such a bother, blah blah) while I’ve already put on extra bacon, started my espresso, and am scrambling eggs in a dish to cook after the bacon.
He finally says “yeah, sure”, and then he starts telling me how to make scrambled eggs.
"Now, you need to start with a clean pan on medium heat, just a little more than medium heat, and let it warm up. Don’t put the eggs in cold. And you should add just a tiny bit of olive oil and use a paper towel to spread it around. Then put in the eggs . . . "
Dad, I’m a 39 year old woman. I’ve been making scrambled eggs since I was 7 and probably mastered making them in college (hey, those teenage years were rough). The bacon is in the pan. The grease it provides will cook the eggs, give them more flavor, and keep anything from sticking to the pan. I’m halfway done while you’re describing to me your Cordon Bleu technique. If you want me to cook to such exacting details, I expect a gastronomic guide citing what type of gas the stove should burn, what temp the flame should burn at, the metal composition and thickness of the pan, the temperature the refrigerator should be kept at, and how many times I should whip the eggs before I pour them in the pan. 'Kay? There are masters of the Japanese Tea Ceremony rolling their eyes at you right now.
Also, when I ask you how you want your bacon, waving your hands in the air and saying “I don’t know, not raw, not burnt!” after your encyclopaedic recitation of the proper way to cook scrambled eggs just makes me think you’re messing with me.
Which you are. Because when you made noises about the dishes, I said I would get them. I do get the dishes. It’s my agreed upon job. But you can’t stand the way I do the dishes, because I scrape them, put them in the dishwasher, add soap, and run the dishwasher just the way the dishwasher manual says too. So, before I can finish my own breakfast, you wash the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.
Because, in our family, the dishwasher is not a dishwasher. It is an autoclave. It’s only purpose is to sterilize the contents. And it can only be used once it has been stuffed to the gills, meaning dishes sit out on the counter or soak in disgusting water for 48 hours before you get around to washing them before they can be autoclaved, and the next day, you can’t tell if the dishes are simply hand-washed clean and in the dishwasher or hand-washed cleaned and sanitized for your protection, because they look exactly the same! (Except for the little butter melting dish for the popcorn popper, because no matter how hard you try to handwash it, it always has a nasty film left on it. However, if I just drop it in the silverware basket and run it through, it’s pristine and sparkling.)
And you know, Mom has talked to you about this. You complain that I don’t help out enough around the house. This is because you interrupt me to teach me how to do things like empty the trash, mop the floor, vacuum the carpet, and wash the dishes. Mom has forbidden you from doing such things, and to your utter astonishment, I picked up the slack and things got done. Just long enough for you to peel the flesh from your skull in frustration and interrupt me with Basic Housecleaning Lessons.
He tries. He really does try. On a good day, if he sees me cleaning the kitchen, he goes and hides in his bedroom so that he doesn’t bother me even though the way I clean the kitchen clearly makes him INSANE. But the best stretch of days we’ve had where I could do the dishes without interruption, tutorials, critiques, explanations, or philosophical diatribes was four days.
