Chef Hirp

I am no chef. I’m not a cook. Ovens aren’t my friend. Want me to arrange for a meal at home? Three words: Take-out and delivery. I microwave, boil, broil, heat, grill, simmer, sauté, mix, or bake about as often as I balance my checkbook. And I don’t think I’ve even tried to do that since I was 18. Sorry, dad. So last night I decided I should surprise my girlfriend by preparing dinner. My first concern was for the safety of her child, whom I had enlisted for help.

First stop was the grocery store. I’m like friggin’ Moses in that place. I go in, and almost 40 years later I walk out and I’m lucky to have any items or sanity left. I look like my mom trying to operate a cell phone. Well, I had no clue what to get. I was at Hy-Vee, where I didn’t see a friendly smile on any aisle and if I had I probably would have tried to run them down. I thought about getting her sushi, figured something you don’t cook can’t be too hard to prepare, but I remembered she isn’t a fan of their sushi. I fully understand how anyone can fuck up something that’s cooked, as I’m sure I’m about to do just that. But screw up something raw? Error, does not compute. So sushi was off the list. How about steaks? We had just had some, although I do know how to operate a grill. So I wandered around the store some more.

Then it hit me. A couple weeks ago we had talked about wanting Beligum Waffles, so I purchased a waffle iron. And we had never picked up the mix, so I thought that should be easy. So I picked up the box, which I found rather quickly. Those signs over the aisles are pretty helpful. The box mentioned something about needing eggs. Eggs, I’ve seen eggs, I’m sure I can buy eggs. Who the hell knew there were so many options for god damn eggs? Different sizes, grades and colored cartons. This is not helping me. When watching TV, I want channels to choose from. Going to the movies, I want multiple choices. Listening to my iPod, I have 1000 choices and it’s almost not enough. But eggs? I don’t want choice. I want eggs. All I ask is that they I don’t get them and then an explanation of how I fertilized them. Short story long, I got some damn eggs.

So I had my groceries, and headed to pick up the munchkin. By the way, did you know schools no longer have chalkboards? School with no chalk is like Nascar with no mullets. Might sound like a good idea, but you’re removing the heart and soul of the institution. Anyway, the rugrat was excited by the prospect of helping me prepare these waffles. She knew what was about to happen, she’s a smart kid and had seen my first attempt at making coffee. I won’t get in to much detail about that little fiasco; let’s just say it’s a good thing she was there. I don’t think her mom wanted salt in her coffee.

Now the box said to make 1-2 waffles, use a certain amount of the batter, 4-5 a different amount and 8-10 use the entire box. Of course I use it all. I even found a bowl that it all fit in. The child found the oil for me as well as the other utensils and accoutrement I would need. I found the mixer, which I mistakenly called a blender at first. I knew it wasn’t a blender, but that’s the best I could do to describe. “The blender thing, you hold upside down, yeah that thing,” is how I really described it.

I inserted the two blade deals, asked the young lady to step back, and proceeded to lower the mixer to the bowl. At which point the blade deals promptly fell off and into the bowl. Shocker huh? I secured them and went started mixing. I was mixing and remixing like I was G Ditty. And much like P Ditty, I wasn’t sure when to stop. I had to call pops to ask, because the last thing I wanted to do was ruin all the progress we had made. Oh, time to mention that the girl actually cracked the eggs and added them to the mix. I’m telling you right now, without her help, I would be in the ER with cuts, burns and batter in all sorts of unimaginable places.

Right about the time I finished mixing, the girlfriend came home. You’re thinking, “aw, he didn’t get to finish.” And I was thinking, “whew.” The portion of this procedure I feared the most was actually pouring the batter on to the iron. To do so un-supervised would be reckless, and probably qualify as a felony for endangering the well being of a minor. So with her keeping an eye, I began to pour the mix onto the waffle maker. What a fucking mess that is.

I must be an idiot-savant or something, with an emphasis on idiot, but the waffles came out pretty damn well. We had way too much batter, a kitchen that looked like a Courtney Love yeast infection, and a child that may need some post-traumatic counseling. But we also had some tasty waffles. Which are suddenly less tasty after the Courtney Love yeast infection reference.