BaddaBlog

Thursday, December 06, 2007

Talking Cooking

It has been too long since I cooked sauce in my house (gravy for those out East). The last time I cooked sauce was actually at a friend's house. The sauce tasted damn fine, though... and it kept good, too.

One of my friends (who I haven't talked to in over a year) does it all wrong. He drains the oil. Huh? Where do you expect the flavor to come in, the Humphrey Terminal?

Tonight, the boy and I sat down to a simple meal provided by the B&D. She's still learning. I'm half to three-quarters sick right now, so I couldn't taste stuff properly... so I'm not saying she made something bad. That said, I saw how she cooked the penne.

First of all, I've got a screaming headache... possibly from sleeping through lunch. She puts a pot with water on the stove. Not a tall pot like you'd use when you actually want pasta. She used the good medium-sized pot... the pot we normally use for cooking sauce. No big deal... this is penne. It will be fine.

Second, she only turned the gas up about half-way. Sweetheart, do you want to get this thing going or not? Kick it up to full.

Third, after I corrected the gas setting I come upstairs (bitching to myself because this damn headache is annoying the Hell out of me) and I see she's got the penne in the pot and the water boiling hard with the gas on full... but I don't see anyone stirring. Sweetheart, I've told you this before... if you want to make it right you don't over boil, you get a long handle spoon and stir, and you caress that stuff. Of course, I cut her some slack because I'm sick and if it were me right now I might just do the same thing.

Last, once you're done a little butter or olive oil ain't bad. You know, before you add the sauce.

Like I said, I'm hungry so she could have made SpagehttiOs and I would have been in heaven.

Dinner commences and the boy says his prayers before we even suggest it. He starts with the Sign of the Cross. Sometimes he starts at his head, other times he starts with one of his shoulders. Occasionally, he'll start with his neck.
Father, Son, Holy Spirit... the Son... the Spirit... Father-Son and the Son... Spirit, Spirit, Spirit... Hoooooooooly Spirit. .
Once in a while he even continues to cross himself.
Cross, cross, cross, cross.
Usually, he finishes with a very rushed and mumbled dinner prayer.
Godisgreatgoodthankfodfood. Amen.
In the past couple of weeks, he says it much more clearly and completely. When I'm in good spirits, we expand the amen.
Preacher Daddy: Can I get an Amen?
Kid: Amen!
Preacher Daddy: Gimme one more!
Kid: Amen!
Preacher Daddy: I can't hear you.
Kid: Amen!!!
Preacher Daddy: Say it loud and proud.
Kid: Amen!
Preacher Daddy: I wanna hear Hallelujah!
Kid: Hallelujah!
Preacher Daddy: And an Amen!
Kid: Amen!
I can't wait until he sees Reverend Cleophus James at the Old Landmark.

Tonight I asked him if he liked the sauce. I asked him to say "marinara"... using cliched hand gestures typically found at Central Casting.
Kid: Mara-mara.
Daddy: No. Marinara.
Kid: Marinbara.
Daddy: No... say mara.
Kid: Mara.
Daddy: Say nara.
Kid: Nara.
Daddy: Say marinara.
Kid: Bara-
Daddy: Marin.
Kid: Marin-narin.
Daddy: Marinara.
Kid: Menor-
Daddy: No. Well... it is the second night. Mar.
Kid: Mahr!
Daddy: Marin.
Kid: Marin.
Daddy: Marinara.
Kid: Barinmarnin.
Daddy: No.
Kid: Naramenara?
Daddy: No! Say Mara.
Kid: Kinda?
Daddy: Say Cheech Marin.
Kid: Ramone?
Daddy: Say Menorah.
Kid: Candelabrum?
Daddy: Say Inara.
Kid: Hubba-hubba!
Daddy: Nice!
Momma: Daddy!
Daddy: I got stupid, the money was too good.
Kid: Let's move this along, Daddy.
Daddy: Sorry.
Kid: Don't mention it.
Daddy: Where were we?
Kid: What's the name of the sauce?
Daddy: What is the fellow's name on second base.
Kid: I'm not askin' ya who's on second.
Daddy: Who's on first.
Kid: I don't know.
Daddy and the Kid: Third base.
Daddy: Surly you saw that coming.
Kid: I'm only three, of course I didn't see that coming... and don't call me Shirley.
Daddy: That's my boy!
In any case, we had Marinara... and not just any kind. It came right out of a jar. Someone might question my Italian credentials after hearing I ate sauce from a jar. Well, let me ask you... how many folks have their great-grandmother on a jar of sauce?That's her... and that's her recipe.

One of my cousins got this going. He's my old man's cousin's son. Apparently, you can buy this stuff in some of the supermarkets around St. Paul.

How's that for being Italian? I don't think even my Sicilian friend has that kind of credentials. (Her family is from Jersey, though.)

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