Tuesday, 19 April 2016

Home Cooking - "Put down the spoon, you're killing you..."

When I was around 18, and my little sister was 8, we spent a lot of time on an all-ages educational website called Poopy-Joe.com. Poopy Joe had a lot going on entertainment-wise, but somehow we always found ourselves clicking on either "The Poop Machine" game or the cooky vid with a familiar poppy lilt, titled "Oops, I Farted Again". Sadly The Poop Machine is not able to be attached to this blog, but if you're ever looking for a way to kill a few hours (or you're drinking alone and don't want to get lost down the Facebook rabbit hole firing off unwelcome friend requests and private messages) feeding this virtual face and butt is a pretty ridiculous way to do it. Yes, the sound effects are uber-disgusting (mute is always an option), but the speeds in which each meal plows, or slugs, through the intestinal track are fairly spot on. I mean, the corn barreling down, only to jettison itself into the toilet to the sound of a machine gun? It was, and still is, very ahead of its time. 
As was the bathroom humor spin on Britney's billboard classic seen above, where she spends the bulk of the clip tooting out fancy-free and footloose flames. For users looking for the amusement value of the  "Poop Machine", minus the interaction, this is where it's at. The jerky, dated computer generated dancing  squatting and arm-flailing won't make you feel like "you're there", but considering the context, you'll be glad you're not.

Amazing, right? But wait, what does a cartoon shitter and a gassy pop princess have anything to do with this blog post? Well, it all comes back to the weird food our bodies can and cannot (or should and should not?) withstand. Poopy-Joe.com teaches us the fake risks of real indigestion, and the gambles we take on the stuff we're not so sure about. "Stuff" like my Tuesday Case Study: The meal I cooked (badly...) in March, that I am now going to try to eat in late April.

Frozen - Like That Song By Madonna 

I re-discovered the freezer months ago when I realized it was capable of solving my issues with never finishing, or wanting to waste, my dinner. You see, I have trouble parting with my leftovers (hence the word "my"), which is really just a nice way of communicating my distaste for sharing, and that's where the freezer comes in. The freezer "freezes" things, prohibiting growth and change - much like the way Scotiabank "froze" my account when I deposited that empty envelope as a teenager, or the way I "froze" in my snake costume after laughing so hard I peed my pants scaly unitard while performing in my elementary school's production of Marco Polo.  In this instance, "freezing" helps me pick up where I left off with a past meal by completely eliminating the chances of bacterial poisoning (something that usually occurs when it is stored in the favorable temperatures of anywhere besides the freezer).  I know. That's a lot of scientific jargon for a wordy blowhard like me. You must be wondering if I've always been this in touch with my savant-ness, and how well I actually knew Oliver Sacks - The answer, of course, is a shaking fist and me saying "That's enough from the peanut gallery!" I mean come on. Jeez... (RIP Dr. Sacks)

Anyway, after this game-changing brain wave, I started firing even the smallest amounts of uneaten food into the icebox...  and the most undesirable. Lone, half-gnawed slices of pizza can often be seen through the frost on the Tupperware containers, as can old sandwiches and noodles with varying toppings and sauces. The majority of this collection is seriously, seriously old, a prime example being the eyesore that can be seen in three of the next five photos. I made this particular concoction about three weeks ago, and yes, I plan on finishing it today. I know some people will think "Ew - gross - what even is that?" but don't worry, I know exactly what this is and where it came from. After all, I was the one that tried to make it, and then somewhere throughout that same process, ruined it. It's like that beer with the salt and pepper facial haired man and the name of that book says: "I don't always make shrimp teriyaki, but when I do, I don't." Wait, I think I am making Dos Equis and Don Quijote one thing instead of two things that are very different...

You never know when you've added too much sauce until you've added way too much sauce...

Yes, this is shrimp teriyaki. Or more accurately, this is what shrimp and too much teriyaki sauce looks like after it's been viciously overcooked and frozen for twenty-one days. I like shrimp, and since all the ones I eat have had a bit of a tough go (as in, they used to be alive, curling their way through the sea, and now they are mostly just dead and expensive), I have decided to incorporate more into my diet. Like a healthier alternative to beef, or chicken, or pork, or what-do-I-care. Too bad "eating well" doesn't look the same for everybody. I have seen shrimp teriyaki done properly, and I don't remember it making me question if a really sick cat mistook my rice for a safe place to empty its insides. The visuals speak for themselves. See that swirly dehydrated-anus looking thing? That used to be a crustacean, and I ate it. And I ate that Van Gogh's-long-lost-(allegedly)self-mutilated-ear-part-looking mushroom over there on the left, too.

You know, sometimes people say that food, flavored or not, tastes like nothing and you think, "How the hell can that be?!" Well, it can be. This dish really tasted like nothing. It sure felt like something though. Like I was eating one of those "potions" you serve to your parents as a child, made exclusively of inedible ingredients. This particular creation has a texture of Barbie Doll head, along with a granular taste - like rocks that haven't yet gone through that Rock Tumbler you regret asking for last Christmas. It's different, and I appreciate the freak flag it's trying to fly, but all those things I just described, to me? Those are indicators that scream "Put down the spoon, you're killing you."

That look Jerry Seinfeld gives after he says "Nah, no-one's ever been shot in the city..."

 Into the compost it goes! Now you can appreciate all the vibrancy of the brown color wheel, which, as I have mentioned in the past, is a personal favorite. The way the broken plastic bowl plays off the garbage-ness of the contents almost convinces me to give this disaster another shot at being lunch, but then I'm reminded of my easy-to-prepare fallback: an incredibly bland, 4-piece handheld sammy. That's right, no plating required. It is a simple as one single slice of fake turkey, two lightly veganaise-ed pieces of bread from Organic Earth (doesn't matter what kind, just as long as they're tan-ish), and three rectangles of Old Cheddar. Sure, it may look like the kind of sandwich that could depress the "Target Lady", or prompt a kindergarten teacher to place a call to child services, but this is made by grown-up hands for a grown-up bod and it is my adult right to control my own malnutrition. Mine and mine alone.

Dog food and the wishy-washiness of leftovers...

Speaking of malnutrition, that pic with the rice, black bits, and the old coffee has reminded me I need to feed the puppers. Gully eats "whole foods" now - which means liver, rice, carrots, and whatever else I think looks neat in his dish, but regardless of the recipe it somehow always manages to look like the bottom of a green bin... or canned Irish Stew.

I know, I know - who cares!? My point is I need to wrap this up. I have to provide for this animal at some point this morning, so let's get down to info that actually matters, like the Harvey's Scale.  Today it has to be broken down into two separate ratings. The first travesty gets a big fat zero, all thanks to the fact that it sucked the first time I tried it, and it sucked even worse almost a month later. My "Trad-ish Turk Sam" (which is "cool" for "traditional turkey sandwich") gets a seven because of it's simplicity and it's ability to not make: 1) a mess, or more importantly, 2) me sick.

Oh yeah, and while we're waiting for fame and fortune...

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