Monday, March 26, 2018

Look Who's NOT Coming to Dinner


Recently, I whipped up dinner for my folks.

What the hell was I thinking?

Now, I enjoy cooking. Not all the time, mind you I have a friggin job, but I’m no slouch in the kitchen. My cookbook- which no one has read- can attest to that. 

So I purchased all the items for a simple Sunday meal. There would be no frills or elegance. That’s not how my family rolls. Our tiaras were at the dry cleaners but we made certain we used the pretty paper plates. Got me?

My menu was a HO made salsa verde over chicken burritos with a side of Spanish rice, made my THIS HO. I researched many salsa verde recipes online searching for the best one I could make from the fresh tomatillos I bought. Now, I will admit, the rice was of the RONI variety but it was tasty none the less.  My folks were tasked with making local garden grown sweet corn using my mom’s favorite kitchen gadget, the microwave.  *sigh*

I SLAVED for over two hours making the sauce and prepping the chicken breasts which I despise making. Yeah, I hate the whole process of doing anything with chicken. Fuck chicken. But I was doing something special for my folks so I went through the trouble of making the chicken 'goddamn delicious' by cleaning it of all opaque ligaments and bloody bits, cooking the remains with spices until it was fork tender and finally shredding the poor bird to bits.  What more could one ask for?


Not the Salsa Verde I made that day but I'm certain they wouldn't eat my Shrimp n' Grits either. I needed a pix of food so...here.


I brought the food over and popped the tortillas in Mom’s handy-dandy microwave to warm them up. 

My dad, who isn’t a fan of Mexican food, quizzes me. What’s this green stuff?  How do I eat it? Why are you trying to poison me? You didn’t let the cats help you cook, did you? 

Lemme explain; my dad’s biggest fear is my cats and dogs assisting me in the kitchen.  Which they do not! I keep telling him they are sans thumbs so they can’t do much to help me….except lick the spoons and bowls clean. I don’t have a fancy machine that scrubs the dishes so I make-due with what I have. Which are cat and dog tongues.

As my dad’s bombarding me with questions, the sounds of gagging and giggling are ringing off the appliances from my mom.

She’s holding herself up in the doorway attempting to stop herself from laughing and gagging, but she yells, “It’s the smell of the cumin.”

Now, in my family, we all think the smell of cumin is reminiscent of body odor. Particularly, from the ‘jock strap region’. It doesn’t stop us from using it-but it always makes for entertainingly distasteful conversation.

That triggers my bitching, “What the hell mom? You haven’t even platted your food yet, let alone tasted it and you’re over there gagging like you’re Linda Lovelace’s stand-in.”
I can already tell this meal is going to be a winner.

As if I’m scolding the children I found out were mine on Maury, I tell my folks to grab their plates and sit at the damn table so we can eat like adults. Yeah, that didn’t quite work out as planned.

See, the older my folks have gotten, the more they have taken to eating like five year olds. Small, quick, heat em up meals that by rights should come with a juice box and a friggin toy are what they subsist on. So I try to bring something over one in a while to expand their palates and give them a healthier meal.

We sit down to eat and my mom, who years ago had a botched gastric-by-pass procedure, and to this day can only eat very small meals is picking at her food telling me that, 'it’s good,' which is code for, I’m eating it because I’m your mother and I love you,  not because I like it.

My DAD on the other hand is moving the food around on his plate. Taking little bird bites.  I’m watching him and I notice he has his napkin in his hand. I think it’s weird but my dad IS weird so I don’t think much of it. As the meal plods on and we make small talk my mom suddenly blurts out, “You’re father is hiding his food in his napkin!”

“Am not!” my Dad shouts.

Mom shoots back, “You are too!”

See? Five year olds.

Pounding my fist in mock rage I yell at him, “Dad! For fucks sake, what the hell?”


My "What the Hell" face.


I say, “what the hell” A LOT when it comes to my folks. ‘For fucks sake’ was off the cuff.
He's so BUSTED.
Mom is in hysterics, continuing to call my Dad out. His face blooms the ripe red color of a baboon’s ass. And mind you, he’s laughing his own ass off.
"I can't believe you squealed on me," he snickers pointing at my Mom with a not-so-menacing fork.
The rest of the meal, which didn't last long, consisted of us cracking up and making fun of my dad.
So, I repeat….FIVE YEAR OLDS. 

No dessert for you Dad!

No…dessert

for you.


Unless the cats make it. Yep, I'll have them 'hand mixing' whatever batter with their tiny litter encrusted paws. Ooooh yeah.  Delicious.


Do NOT eat with these miscreants unless you want a good laugh.

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