Of Cooking

Accept my apologies, anonymous friends/strangers; I've been somehow absent from this little retreat of mine for a stretch of over 3 weeks and have very little to show for it, apart from the disgraceful pile of dishes in my sink due to my adventures in the exciting world of COOKING THINGS. If my effort at using pots and pans to make dinner were, say, adapted from the fearless African expeditions of Livingston, and we were to have dinner, the first words you'd say upon view of the unspeakable monstrosity on your plate might very well be "Edible, I presume?"

I've turned to cooking as a means of relaxation after a long day at work, or, as I've come to affectionately call it, "My Pre-Coffin". More on that later. In any event, at its very least, cooking serves to remind us of one of life's most important virtues: discipline. I say this because I'm a relative novice when it comes to subjects like "preparation time" and "things that require utensils", so needless to say my frustration boils over (much like the poor noodles under my watch) and my motivation simultaneously crumbles when something boring happens, such as reading directions. In these instances, which actually turns out to be "most of the time", I sustain myself on a mish-mash of evil, PURE EVIL: lean pockets and "La Mas Rica" peanuts*.

The travesty that occasionally does represent my best effort at making Level 2 Food is impressive only in that you probably haven't seen anything like it before. I'm the Surya Bonaly of culinary arts, if you will; I look fondly back at the '98 Games when, due to her unique and unconventional interpretation of the poetry-in-motion that is ice skating, eager judges were prompted to evaluate her with words instead of numbers, such as "Just what the hell was that??"

What is this I hear? I hear gleeful squealing. Oh, its you, Silent Masses Who Apparently Read This Page. Within the last few weeks my page views have steadily increased, yet with stagnant comment flow, leading me to question how many of you are out there stabbing little Nicky voodoo dolls or clawing at their eyes shouting BEGONE, ACID KING! I WILL DEPLOY SANDSTORM! Then again, despite this minor concern, my firey need for attention is satiated somewhat even IF my readers (however many you are) are as crazy as noted above or are currently rocking violently in your seat, becoming entangled in your cape shouting things like:

"NICKY DUMB HE CAN'T COOK GOOD HAHAHA HE STAND NEXT TO FARTING MAN IN RESTROOM HAHAHA FART HEE HEE NICKY GOOFY LIKE CLOWN"

I'm willing to bet lots of money that if you fall under the latter grouping, you also belong to the annoyingasfuck faction of B97 listeners who waste everyone's retro lunch hour with incessant requests to hear "Baby Got Back" and "Ice Ice Baby". In which case, I wonder how you escaped from your cell and were able to subscribe to telephone service. What's more -- yes...yes, I DO recognize you from the time we were all done go-karting and lining up afterwards when you thought it would be helpful to RAM INTO THE BACK OF ME AT FULL SPEED as I sat ignorant to the rapidly approaching danger and imminent pain that awaited me.

And yes I'm ending this here because I think I've strayed far enough off the subject, which was already kind of hazy to begin with.

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*I'm eating some right now.