Welcome to Boy’s Kitchen!!


Thaaaaaaaaaat’s right, folks!  The post absolutely NONE of us has been waiting for is here!

Last night The Boy was presented with his challenge, given his recipe and sent on his way to make us some grub.  We ate, we laughed, we were subsequently treated for Salmonella.

. . . here’s how it went down:

I kinda got the feeling early on we were in for a rough night.  I reminded Boy of his dinner quest around 4:00.  He shuffled upstairs mumbling something about homework and said he would start it at 6:00.

You know that real slow shuffle your toddler does when you tell him to go to bed and he doesn’t want to go so he takes as long as possible to get there?


I know you know exactly the thing I’m talking about.  There’s too many parents reading this to not know it.

It was like that.

[In case you missed last nights post or forgot it or just started reading my blog and are making your way backward, here is the recipe The Boy cooked for tonight’s post.]

So 6:00 finally arrived, Liz was home and Boy came down to announce that he was ready to begin.  He chatted with us for a moment, played with the dog and headed into the kitchen to immediately begin pulling the necessities from the refrigerator.

Me:  “Tell me you did NOT just pet the dog and then go into the kitchen to touch my food with your nasty little unwashed dog hands!”

We were not off to a stellar start.

Boy:  “Well the heat when it’s cooking will kill . . . ”

I stopped him then and there.  “I don’t even want to hear it.  Talk to the sterilized hand, Sparky.  You can forget a career in the medical field.”

The hands were reluctantly washed, and the search for the ingredients began.

Now, we made sure that all the ingredients were available and properly stored in the refrigerator or in their appropriate places.  We did NOT go out of our way to hide anything or make this at all any more difficult than it was already going to be, we just had the stuff put away where it was supposed to go.  Apparently we should have left everything sitting on the front edge of the shelf, right at eye level, ready to jump itself out of the refrigerator and the cabinets and set itself up on the counter in the order in which it will be used.  At least, that is what he appeared to believe would happen, because he searched . . .


and searched . . .


and searched some more . . .


and much like matching socks, he just could not find everything he was looking for.

Because drawers and door shelves and shit and opening them and moving shit is hard, but The Boy’s grasp of taking things literal is way over the top.  He did manage to find the 2 lb pork loin (because it happened to be sitting right there on the shelf), but this caused him to walk around in circles in the kitchen holding the pork loin with a look of sheer confusion on his face.

“Well, I found a 2 lb pork loin in there, but the recipe calls for 1 lb”, he said.  He continued to circle.

Fucking flummoxed, he was!

“Why did you get a 2 lb pork loin?  What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked.

“Maybe we want some leftovers.  IMPROVISE, Dude!” I exclaimed.

I left him with that and his search continued.  (Just so you know, there was plenty of ingredients in there for him to double the recipe but . . . Ok, I’ll get to that in a bit.)

The next thing he hit us with is, “You guys forgot to get Gouda.”

Holy Jesus H on a broken unicycle . . . let me invite you readers in to help him out with this one.  Focus, now, because this is hard.  See if you can spot the Gouda:



Ok, I know you’re all a little exhausted now, but try to trudge forward because the next one gets a little harder.  We didn’t have any deli mustard either.  (Well, except for the brand new one he found in the pantry.)  In the 15 minutes he spent with his head in the refrigerator, this escaped him as well:

IMG_0768That was the last one, I promise.

When all the ingredients were finally collected, we finally backed off and let him get to it.  I mean, we had intended to back off from the beginning but we wanted to eat before our Social Security kicked in so we helped him find shit.  At that point he had everything and he could be left to begin the cooking process.  We sat down to get a couple minutes of peace.  I texted my son the picture of Boy staring into the refrigerator and Anthony has known of this plan since the beginning.  He was not yet aware of the recipe we had bestowed upon The Boy.  His response was classic.


Anthony had clearly not seen the socks yet.

So the preparing and cooking began. . .

It actually looked like it was starting to take shape.  He sliced the pork loin and the mushrooms.  He chopped the green onions, although I’m going to use the term “chopped” very loosely here.  I’m going to say that if “chunked” was a word, it would be more appropriate.


He also lined up all of the ingredients on the counter.  In order of their intended use.  My own OCD made me feel a little proud while at the same time I was kinda creeped out by the “escaped mental patient/serial killer” order to it.


The pans came out . . .


Things started to heat up and get mixed together . . .


. . . and it actually started to smell pretty damned good in there.

Dude, you're KILLIN' me with those goddamned socks!
Dude, you’re KILLIN’ me with those goddamned socks!

It was at this point he was left completely undisturbed and I sat down to begin last nights post.  There was clacking and clanging and things bubbling and I was not alerted by the smoke alarm so I assumed all was going fairly well.  After a while, I was sort of absorbed in my post as I tend to do.  I was awakened from my blogger trance by this placed on the desk in front of me:


At first glance, it doesn’t look all that bad, and to answer your question before you ask it, no, that is not a giant fork.  It is a little tiny plate.  With three slices of pork loin on it, mushrooms and some very large chunks of green onions.  So lets compare it to the picture from the recipe . . .


Looks like he was on to something.  Almost.  Liz was the first to speak up.  “Where’s the rice and broccoli casserole?”

His response, “Oh . . . I forgot to make it.”

So my question at this point is how . . . IN. THE. FUCK. . . .  do you serial killer/mental patient/Tony-Shaloub-in-Monk all your ingredients on the counter before you begin and then forget to cook half the goddamn meal?!


Oh well.  It was just as well, because his idea of “improvising” with the 2 lbs of pork loin was to cook all 2 lbs, but still make the sauce according to the 1 lb recipe, so it was running a tad short, which was kind of a shame because the sauce was freakin’ awesome!  It went really well with the pork and had a unique flavor and it was just GOOD.

On the two thinner slices of pork.  Because they were done.

The thicker slice on the other hand, was not.  Investigating one of the other thicker slices, I found the same to be true.


When I pointed this out to him, he didn’t say “maybe I should have cooked it longer” or “maybe I cut those a little too thick” or even “not bad for not knowing what I was doing though, right”?

He said, “Hey, I followed the directions.”  In such a way as to insinuate that if the pork was raw in the middle and he followed the directions, then clearly the directions must be wrong.

*heavy sigh*

So Liz made us a pot of rice to eat with the edible slices of pork.  Just plain white rice as it was pretty damned good when mixed with the sauce, and just to say it again so I’m not completely shutting down his efforts, the sauce was friggin’ awesome.

He left us with one final “fuck you” for the night.  When all was said and done, with all the time and effort he put into it and the grief he had to endure to get through it, this is what he ate for dinner . . .


. . . a bowl of plain white rice.  That Liz made.

Liz made dinner tonight, so we got a complete meal.  Thank God.

As much fun as this was, I don’t think I’ll be volunteering for this again anytime in the near future.


Don’t forget to send me your “idiot coworker” quotes.  I was kind of quiet about it today because my coworker was far too stupid to fit into 140 characters.


Facebook post of the day is going to be a little shameless advertising . . . for my brother.  He’s a very talented artist and has finally opened up his online store to purchase his work.  He does some really great characters and is quite willing to take requests if you have an idea for someone you would be interested in.  Click the image of his Facebook post to go to his online store and check out his work.



15 thoughts on “Welcome to Boy’s Kitchen!!

  1. It looks a little like cat barf, but at least the sauce was good. How did you get The Boy to agree to do this in the first place? When I saw the recipe the other night I was like “Wait! This has cheese AND mushrooms–two things The Boy won’t eat!” My daughter would eat a plain bowl of rice for dinner every night if we let her. Best part of this post was Anthony’s contribution. He’s clearly inherited your sense of humor!

  2. I probably wouldn’t have done much better myself until about 3 years ago. Ok, I would have been able to find the ingredients and made the whole recipe. But I bet my sauce would have sucked. Good for him for at least being game to try!

  3. The only thing harder than pork is chicken. Pork, btw, has been declared to be safe (if not necessarily appetizing) to eat at 140. Used to be you had to cook the living snot out of it because of Trichinosis, but they’ve eradicated the Trichina worm from the US pork supply so it’s ok now. I’m not saying the texture is the greatest, but it’s not going to kill you. Chicken, on the other hand, really can’t be served undercooked.

    He should be proud, because sauce is no mean feat. My husband worked in commercial kitchens (as a line cook, not a head chef or anything) and he can’t make sauce to save himself. I, on the other hand, as a sauce freak, make an excellent sauce. My favorite simple thing to do is sauté the meat, then pull it, add heavy cream and Dijon mustard to the pan, put the protein back and let the sauce cook down until it’s thick, at which time the meat will also be done. My husband is sick of this meal.

    My daughter has the same sock matching impairment. I think she gets a pass, though, because she turns 8 in three weeks. If she’s still doing it at 19, we might have to seek treatment.

    1. Actually, your sauce sounds pretty good, but I like anything that involves Dijon mustard, so I’ll be trying that.

      As for the treatment, I think it’s in his future, but whether it is for a pre-existing mental defect or PTSD from my presence in the house has yet to be determined.

  4. “Fucking flummoxed, he was!” – HA! That was my favourite line of the whole post.

    Can’t believe he forgot the rice! Brilliant! Maybe give him something less ambitious to tackle next time, like Pop Tarts.

    1. He’s 17, Samara. As for the hoodie, I don’t know what’s up with that. 50 degrees, 100 degrees, it doesn’t matter, he’s always in a hoodie. I think #gangsta gets negated by the socks.

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