comfort foods: why i ever left this place, i still dont know
by Michele Christopher
After the wonderful recipe that no one is going to try to make by Baby Huey earlier today, we thought it would be a great follow up to do this as our late night typing.
Don't ask how it got that lame ass name. I don't know how it got associated with being comfy or anything like that. In fact the whole name sounds like it was made up by "Francis" the Head Chef at the local "Free Gay Buffet". All I know is that this is some of the best food there is.
It's something that you always wanted and never forgot. Fuck the name, this is about the food.
Wanna read ours?
Here we go!
turtle gets all Ragu on you
No. I am not Italian. No. I don’t shave everyday. No. My old country has never won a World War. But hey dude, we made an alliance with the Italians during WW II. Maybe that's why I like Italian food so much. Fuck, you can only eat so many soft tacos in a day before you start wondering when you have to swim the river and get a job picking tomatoes in the "land of freedom". Soft tacos are not comfort food.
But, lasagna. The only way to make it was the way mom made it. 100 percent German lady making this wonderful dish. I could smell it being cooked three days away from some place I called home. The leftovers. The garlic bread. I was safe now. The war was over. A food alliance between the losers of too many wars put their only skills together and my mom came out the winner. Don’t bother ever buying it for me or making it for me.
It's been tried. And like Hitler killing himself, it has been lost.
I can only eat mom's lasagna. The rest is just soft tacos. And I don't want to pick blackberries in the field again. And the Rio Grande is fucking cold for god’s sake.
I ain't swimming that fucker again without a gun to my back.
Yes I took a sucker bet out of this one, but the way mama makes it is so perfect. Another food to never try to make me. It just won't work. Four family members all putting out their cigarettes in the wasted catsup of the after meal plates as they rub their tummies. A habit picked up that I still do today. But, I use cigars now. If I put out a cigar after I ate your food right in the middle of the plate? It means good job. And it also means that you are lucky these aren't the Roman Times or I would find a vomitorium and show you what a proper meal you have made and how I wanted more.
Tomato Soup and Grilled Cheese
Let's be honest here. This is jail food. You might remember this as your mama feeding it to you when you were in bed with the flu, but in jail, it's called "Tuesday". Don't get me wrong. Nothing about this reminds me of being in jail or prison and for god’s sake that doesn't make me feel comfy. But, just the taste of the cheese in the soup as you watch golf all day long naked with just a blanket on, it's comfy.
Sunday with a cigar. Watching TV while wondering if you even want to talk to the world today. A swing and a miss. A scratch on the balls. A missed putt. A stretch in your back. An Eagle. A relight of the cigar and one last bite of the grilled cheese.
That is comfort.
Oh yes. Now I'm getting expensive on you. Or if you are perverted, kinda dirty on you. I giggle any time I type those words. Tuna...hehehehe. Seared...hehehehe.
But seriously, this is what I eat when I couldn't keep anything down. Be it car wrecks or detoxing, this was what kept me going. When all you can do is watch "Sponge Bob Squarepants" and puke bile for three days in a row, this is what you want. Gooey, slimy and covered in sauce. The only thing I want when I am sick. I can cook a piece of this before you can finish a cigarette. This is really a food that is no good for BBQ's. Too fast to cook. Before I have my bladder halfway empty, the food is done. And as you guys all know, cutting off a majestic piss half thru feels like someone punching you in the balls. Flip the fish with one hand while holding "Mr. Frosties" head with the other.
Seared tuna is great, but pissing is better. - T
Michele has some close encounters:
These were a special meal thing. Mom didn’t make them too often because they were a pain in the ass. Peeling enough potatoes to feed five people who all wanted second helpings is a bitch. Trust me, I know. When I was about six, mom realized I was old enough to work the peeler. One of those old fashioned metal things. That fucker would twist and turn as you used it. Wet potato in one hand. Sharp, resistant peeler in the other. Six year old hands. What the hell was mom thinking? It took me about fifteen minutes to peel one potato. And I cut three of my knuckles in the process. Don’t ask. Just know that I’m kinda spastic. So I had to start peeling the potatoes at like 4:00 if we wanted to eat by the time dad got home at seven. This was slave labor. Sweatshop type work. I hated it more than anything. But I got to hang out in the kitchen with mom and watch Dark Shadows. And that ruled. And then we’d eventually sit down to dinner and let me tell you, there’s something extra good about mashed potatoes that you bled for.
Plus, there’s the fun factor of mashed potatoes. The castle and moat! You build your potatoes into this huge glob that in your mind looks like a castle (fuck Richard Dreyfuss, we were building shit out of our spuds way before he did his alien thing) and then use your spoon to carve a moat around. Fill the moat with gravy. Then dump a spoonful of corn all around the moat and pretend that the kernels are drowning peasants. Make the appropriate “help me” noises. Then wait for your mom or dad to tell you to stop playing with your food and pretend you don’t see dad shaping his mashed potatoes into a hand giving the middle finger to your mother.
That was last Thanksgiving, by the way.
Gotta love the mashed potatoes.
Not just any chili. Dad’s chili. It’s the dead of winter. February in New York. Cold, gray and it’s snowing like a motherfucker. Everyone is outside shoveling snow or pretending to shovel snow but really just playing around. I try to explain to dad that there’s no point in shoveling the driveway now when ten more inches are predicted. But, like my mom and the potato peeler thing, my dad insists on some kind of work ethic. It’s like a life lesson. You shovel and shovel and you finally get to the end of the driveway and you turn around to survey your work and...fuck. The driveway is covered again. Must be about another five inches fell while you were working your ass off to get it cleared. Dad motions for you to start over again. Thank you, Mario, but our princess is in another castle! Fuck that. You have other things to do because here comes Mr. Plow. He clears the street, but not all the way. He leaves a thin layer of tightly packed snow on top of about an inch of ice. Oh baby! It’s like the bat signal went off. All of a sudden, there’s a bunch of kids in the street. Just waiting on a car. We’re going skitching! You wait for a car to come down the road. When one finally comes, you move in behind it like a stalking animal, crouch down and grab the bumper. Your feet slide along the street as you hang on for your life. The car makes a turn and your feet go sliding and your hands are so numb with cold you’re not sure if you are hanging on anymore and you’re pretty sure that in about two seconds, your head is going to be crushed underneath the car’s tires. But you get your balance back and you’re sliding again. You let go at the next corner and walk back home, exhilarated.
That smell. You walk into the kitchen, soaking wet with snow crusted on your pants and your hands red and raw and your nose running and that smell, it melts you. Chili. Dad’s winter chili. Is it ready yet? You ask him ten times. No, he says. It has to be just right. You take off your boots and your scarf and your frozen gloves and leave them in a wet heap on the mat and you get changed into your warmest clothes, all the while your mouth is watering. Mom gives you hot chocolate. You sit at the table and watch your dad stir the chili and put in a few more spices, a few more shakes of chili powder, another dash of something else. You just wait. By the time the feeling comes back into your hands and feet, the chili is done. Dad puts a huge bowl of it in front of you with a big chunk of Italian bread and he tells you thanks for you shoveling the driveway.
Oh fuck. The driveway.
Oh well. This chili ain’t gonna eat itself. -M
So once again, we got way off topic. These are our favorite comfort foods.
We want to know yours.
And don't tell us Mac and Cheese because we will know that the tapeworms from that Kraft crap have taken over your mind. Like a weird Star Trek thing, the tapeworms have got you.
RKL - Coming Home