I’m not much of a cook. That’s an understatement, actually. There is almost nothing that I can successfully cook. I dry out eggs from fear of sammy. I burn almost anything that needs to be fried or sautéed. Things tend to be charcoal on the outside and raw in the middle. A few months ago I bought a digital meat thermometer; I thought that would really help but it hasn’t. I’d poke it onto something and all the juice would come out and the thing would read “rare” or I would get no reading at all. Then a few minutes later I’d do it again and it would say “well” and be completely dried out.

I never fared any better on the grill. IÂ’d watch some cooking shows and I learned a little bit, things like cold meat sticks to a hot grill, but for the most part, IÂ’ve ruined a lot of good meat. What makes this all worse is the fact that IÂ’m somewhat of a gourmand. I know a lot about food. The fact that I know what I want and what I like and canÂ’t cook it is starting to wear thin on me. Not that IÂ’m going to start making complex reductions from veal bones or anything, but I should be able to grill a steak without destroying the damned thing.

Last month we decided to get a new grill and I finally fired it up this week. We got a couple of NY Strips and some potatoes and gave it a go. The first thing I notices was if you light this grill and close the lid the thing goes up to 600 degrees really, really fast. My old grill never really got hot enough. So I brushed a little olive oil on them so they wouldnÂ’t stick, some salt and pepper and threw them on. I closed the lid and watched the temperature gauge go back to 600 degrees. When I opened the lid a few minutes later they looked like they were ready to be turned. I flipped them and gave it a few more minutes at 600.

They were perfect. Turns out it wasnÂ’t me after all. You just need to get that bastard up to 600 degrees and keep the lid closed.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:53 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Adult suburbia is a lot like high school.

I pick my kid up from dancing lessons and other events. IÂ’m forced to attend the odd birthday parties as well, and IÂ’m here to tell you that high school behavior is alive and well, long after your CamaroÂ’s been sold for scrap.

When I pick my kid up from dancing I am always the only man there. The gaggle of mothers all look up when I walk in and then go back to talking amongst themselves. None of them will look me in the eye. I always nod and smile because IÂ’m polite. They all look away. After a few minutes a couple of them will start staring at me when they think IÂ’m not looking. And I mean stare. Like I have two heads.

Most of them pretend IÂ’m not there at all. Like I give a shit. Every once in a while IÂ’ll look up quickly and catch one of them staring at me and they panic and look away. This goes on week after week. Are they threatened by me? Are they wondering why their own worthless husbands canÂ’t contribute a little more? IÂ’ll probably never know. They have a definite pecking order as well. In fact a couple of the women are ignored as well.

Anyway, a friend of the family started taking her kid to the same dance school and now I have someone to talk to when I show up, much to the dismay of the other mothers. They are clearly pissed off by my talking to this woman. What they really need to do is relax and develop some damned social graces.

The only difference between this situation and high school is the frump factor. And a cloud of dope smoke. Most of these broads look like theyÂ’ve had the life beaten out of them. A few keep in shape but most are pretty far gone, and theyÂ’re younger than I am. Maybe thatÂ’s where the hostility comes from.

The same thing happens when IÂ’m forced to go to a birthday party. I walk in and either all conversation stops or they pretend IÂ’m not there. Like theyÂ’re punishing me. Do these broads think I like going to these things? Do they think I want to share theyÂ’re company? Maybe get a play date going or something? Because IÂ’m here to tell you broads something. I donÂ’t like you. I donÂ’t want to talk to you. I donÂ’t want to see you in those horrifying clothes you wear. The sweat pants and the saggy-baggy old crap thatÂ’s hanging off of you. You all need to get your fucking hair done, learn to put on some makeup that wasnÂ’t purchased in a Northern New Jersey drugstore and learn to sit up straight.

These women look at me like I have two heads and theyÂ’re the ones that look like they slept on the floor in their clothes all night. TheyÂ’re the ones that better not get a divorce because itÂ’s going to be CAT CITY for them.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 05:05 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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