It’s time to get serious here, because if there is one thing we don’t screw around with, it’s Bacon.
Yes, I capitalized Bacon and I will continue to do so because that is the kind of respect it deserves. This isn’t entirely about Bacon, however. The deal went down something like this:
It’s Thursday night and it has been kind of a long day at work for both Liz and I. She works the same place that I do and it’s the government and all that, so you understand how work can be a bitch sometimes. I’m sitting on the couch just kind of chilling, watching some Big Bang Theory and relaxing. Liz, having a few thousand times more responsibilities where we work, is at the other end of the couch doing more work on her computer, doing things I don’t understand and from the way she describes it, I hope I never have to.
Enter the kids.
To clarify in this particular situation, the “kids” are 17 and 23 years old. Liz has announced to them that she is on strike tonight and will not be making dinner.
Now, many of you may not see this as an issue. Liz, however, is one of those moms that gets the whole guilt complex thing going on if she doesn’t have food hot and ready for her kids. Call it spoiling or good mothering or whatever, it’s just how she is. Except tonight. She wasn’t having any of that guilt shit because by God there is food in the refrigerator and they are capable of opening the door to it and . . . . just find something to eat and leave me alone.
The kids, use to mom taking care of their evening meal, sort of quietly regress to an earlier stage of child development.
We’ll start with *”Girl”, the 23 year old, because the adventures with *”Boy” became so entertaining later on that I forgot what, or even if, she ate eventually.
(*Names changed because . . . well, you’ll see why.)
Just to be clear before we get started here, these are two very intelligent kids. Girl is in college doing medical stuff to possibly become a doctor. Boy has a very high IQ and is in all the accelerated classes in high school and Baccalaureate programs and all that kind of shit. The world is theirs to have.
As long as they don’t aspire to being Chefs.
Without going into too much of a verbal stink about it, Girl goes into the kitchen and spots a bag of potato chips in the pantry, which she opens and eats (from the pantry) as she opens the refrigerator doors and begins the 1000 yard stare into it. She picks a couple things up and puts them back down. Opens a couple drawers, then closes them. Then she closes the refrigerator, eats more chips and then opens the refrigerator again to resume the 1000 yard stare.
Because apparently, closing the refrigerator may actually change its contents to something more desirable.
[EDIT: This appeared on Twitter a couple days after I wrote this post, but it was too appropriate not to edit it in.]
If the refrigerator you keep checking, magically appear food will not.
— Yoda (@NobleMasterYoda) September 24, 2014
Eventually she gives up and leaves, and she leaves things just like this:
I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she went up to take a half hour break and see if that does anything to reset the contents of the refrigerator.
Enter, the Boy.
His process is a little more complicated. He leaves out the potato chip part, but otherwise the routine is similar with a few variants. During his 1000 yard stare, he does actually remove things from the refrigerator and open lids. Sometimes he even puts them on the counter to create the illusion that he might actually eat it. Until he discovers what is in it, then he either a) puts it back or b) spills it on the floor.
(Enter Dog who cleans the floor.)
To understand this process, you need to know that Boy is a very picky eater. Included in the LONG list of shit he won’t eat is:
- green peppers
The last one caused me to blurt out “What the fuck is WRONG with him?!” the first time I heard it and the first one made me invent a new food called “sea chickens” which is what I suggested Liz should have referred to them as so he would eat them.
One of the containers he opened contain shrimp and pasta, and when he asked what was in it, I responded with “sea chickens”.
He was skeptical.
The process of removing, opening, replacing/spilling continued for a good 15 minutes. At one point, sandwich meat made it onto the counter until he found that there was no bread. There was bread in the freezer but that was too much like work which is ironic considering what came next.
He finally settled on . . . Bacon and eggs.
The pans came out, the Bacon came out and the eggs were cracked into the bowl.
Then the fun began.
With a straight face and in all sincerity he asked, “Mom, how do you cook Bacon”?
(Thank you, Criminal Minds.)
Liz couldn’t speak and simply started laughing. I think she managed to spit out a “Really?!”
You know me by now and smartass is more of a reflex than personality trait anymore. I went with “If it’s black, it’s wrong”.
“No, I’m serious”, he said.
I don’t remember the exact wording she used, but her response to him was something to the effect of “Put pan on stove, make pan hot, place Bacon in pan, remove Bacon when desired texture has been reached”. Through her laughter of course.
“But what about the fat? I don’t want the fat to be wrong.” he said.
This is where I got lost because I’m still, even after having it explained to me, not sure what exactly “wrong fat” is. Apparently it is a texture issue of some kind, an issue that Foxy Wine Pocket recently discussed in a post about chicken being a vegetable. He doesn’t like fat on a steak at all which to me is the equivalent of not liking flavor of any kind in a steak, so the concept is lost on me.
Our input was useless at this point because we couldn’t stop crying, and with a heavy sigh, he took a stab at making his Bacon.
A few minutes later, as the heavy smoke rose from the stove, Liz said “You might want to turn the heat down”.
Boy: “Why? I’m not burning it.”
Me: “The heavy layer of smoke at the ceiling says otherwise.”
Boy: “That’s not smoke, that is the Bacon evaporating as it cooks.”
Me: “Fuck me. Really?!”
By the time we had composed ourselves enough to actually enter the kitchen rather than observing from over the bar, he had “finished” making his bacon and was starting to work on the eggs. He had added a cajun seasoning (which contains salt) to the mixture, then proceeded to add salt. Somewhere in there, Liz threw in a comment about “wanting some eggs with your salt” but it was summarily blown off in the way that 17 year old’s that know what they’re doing blow things off.
Also, the fat had apparently come out “wrong” so (I so wish I had had the forethought to bring my phone in to catch a picture of it) he had a piece of bacon in his hand and was touching the fat to the pan he was heating to make the eggs to make it “right”. We had to leave again because once more, our composure was shot.
30 minutes and the total destruction of the kitchen later, Boy sat down to eat his Bacon and eggs.
(The empty pizza boxes were not a part of tonight’s episode, but have a similar story, because the previous day of work was similarly frustrating. When Boy asked what mom was making for dinner the night before, the response was “A phone call.”)
Boy: “Yeah, these eggs are kinda salty.”
Liz: “No shit, right?”
Boy: “Well, you are the one that decided to go on strike and not make dinner.”
Liz: “Because making BACON is hard!”
Boy: *trying to be funny* “Well, it does get kind of heavy.”
Me: “Ok genius, now explain to me how Bacon both evaporates as it cooks and gets heavier.”
The frustration was apparent on his face at having been backed into that particular corner. Liz was unable to speak anymore at this point as the laughter was making it difficult for her to breathe.
Boy went back into the kitchen and began to look for desert. He settled on ice cream and pulled a bowl from the cabinet.
Being out of his earshot, I looked at Liz and said, “I hope he doesn’t fuck that up.”
Boy later threatened that this would be the “last free blog post” I’d ever get out of him.
Given that performance, I find that unlikely.
In semi-related news (and to prove Liz right when she warned me that anything can happen in this house), I woke up yesterday morning and made my way into the kitchen for my coffee as I usually do. Right there on the stove, next to my coffee pot, was this:
Too soon before coffee for me to take any offense to it, I poured my coffee and sat down in front of the computer to see if I had inadvertently written an offensive post about someone in my sleep. I hadn’t, and this post had not been written yet, so I know it wasn’t to blame.
Liz is spending the next week dog sitting for a friend, at their house, so she wasn’t here to do it.
Boy is at his dad’s for the weekend and he got his ass kicked by Bacon so I didn’t much figure he was going to make a cake and make it shaped like a penis too.
That left only Girl. I have to say I was suitably impressed given the potato chip/refrigerator stare from the other night.
I was to later find out that she was attending a bachelorette party later on in the day. She called it a “Bridal Shower” but if you’re showing up with a penis cake you don’t get to call it a “Bridal Shower” anymore. It’s just wrong on far too many levels. It was explained to me that she made TWO of these cakes as she was concerned that it might break when removing it from the penis pan, so she made the extra one as a backup “just in case”. Because there is nothing worse than a broken penis. Cake. Fortunately? for me, neither of the cakes broke, so in celebration of my awesomeness I was gifted with the extra penis cake.
Sadly, it didn’t last long, (That’s what she said) because I left the dog alone in the house with it for 5 freakin’ minutes and by the time I got back, this was all that remained:
After several text messages between myself, Liz and Girl, Girl came home and force fed peroxide down the dogs throat to make her, uh, expel the cake. There was a phone call or two to the vet and more peroxide and more expelling, but the dog is none the worse for wear and doing fine. And probably didn’t learn a fucking thing. The event did spark this fun exchange on Facebook, however:
Don’t ever let it be said that life is boring around here lately. Between work and Boy and Girl, there’s going to be plenty more to write about.
When someone asks me how my weekend was tomorrow, now I can respond with, “Well, the house didn’t burn down and we didn’t kill the dog with a penis cake, but it was touch and go there for a while.”
Kate from Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine gets the Facebook Post of the Day because of this perfectly timed post. It’s like she knew what I was going to write about!