Yo, Bandit! That’s hep talk from the ‘50s daddy-o! Except for the yo. That’s….I dunno. That’s……I dunno.
So! Dig these smoke rings in my head right now! So, I was thinkin’ about, ya know, when I was cool? That was….what: ‘75? Not when I was 75. But when, like, the whole earth was ‘75? Or, 1975? Yeah. That was it. 1975. I was thinkin’ “I used to be normal. Now I’m all So Serious.
The Joker would be chastising me. ‘Why so serious?’ he would say. He yoosta say that. So, I was thinkin’ fuck this writing for whatever the “biker” audience thinks it is now: how about going back in time and being normal? And when BIKERS were fucking normal. This was me talkin’ to me. So, I said “Who even the fuck are you?” Haha, turns out it was me.
So anyway, here’s some, like, one-on-one talk with the gals. Guys don’t write advisories to women. Except in cards. That someone else writes. That ain’t right. What, they’re actually second class citizens? No, that’s OUR job.
They’re human beings. We need to actually talk to them like they’re human beings. Let them know that they are actually on our mind. Too many dudes today are all, “Oh well, I am too very manly to be talking to women like as though I am actually paying attention to what they are doing.” I decided to buck that crowd. This is for the gals.
Hi, could I just talk to the gals for a minute? I want to give you ladies some calming reassurance regarding cooking. Ya know what? I’ve spent a lotta time in kitchens. Worked in restaurants, had cooks in the family, coupla chefs in fact: here’s some calming advice about you maybe stressing that something might go wrong when makin’ the meal.
I know how it is, you are basically assembling, well, a creation. You are creating a final product from a step by step addition of individual items that at the end are supposed to cohere into a pleasant experience: not to look at or USE but to actually eat.
Cooking is a special art form: you eat the final result. That’s just its nature! But ya know what? sometimes things just plain old somehow go disastrously south. too much o’ this not enough o’ that, something’s sliced wrong, bad carrots, the fire’s too hot, the fire’s too cold, the pan was too full, too empty, too small, too big, too much water, not enough water.
I mean it’s endless. But not to fret hon! remember – and there’s just two things on this list: 1: it’s just food. toss it out and do it again. Shit, fucking happens. And 2: you’re a gal! no one expects miracles! I mean you give birth to new people! that’s miracle enough! competence with knives? fire? addition? subtraction? ounces? half ounces? cups? quarts? pinch? scoche? dab? tincture? and don’t get me started on the number of spices and flavoring containers inside that second home of yours, the Kitchen Cabinets.
But ya know what? we just love the way you don’t give up, DESPITE the fact that as far as us guys are concerned you couldn’t cook your way out of Guy Fieri’s kitchen with Gordon Ramsay and Wolfgang Puck cheering you on and doing most of the work. But hon? We don’t care!! It’s ok!! We’ll eat it! We just won’t like it! But we won’t say this fucking sucks. You’re out there in that darn kitchen making an effort. We love that!
Remember: you’re the only one who thinks you can cook. Everyone else knows you suck at it. But you know what? Whether you get all the ingredients right… and get all the cooking times right…and get the right amount of this and mix up just the proper amount of that for the proper amount of strategically balanced amount of time and ingredients…. we who are not you… and who have penises and not vaginas….. we know that no matter WHAT you do out there in that confusion and bedlam and in that concocted birthplace-of-horrors you’re “creating” that even a ravenous jackal wouldn’t eat…. no matter what you do out there in that nightmare of relentless incompetence that you call YOUR KITCHEN…we know you’re TRYING.
We know preparing good food for us is important to you! Why do you think we insist that you bring us beer with our meals? Because that first 12 ounce chugalug is gonna make that swill concoction of dog anuses and puke-scented fecal-splash that you blundered-into-existence out of innocent helpless ingredients, that beer will make that heap of still-writhing eel-ass taste a lot less specific and a lot more incoherent when we are done swallowing that first can of Coors.
Down goes the beer….. in goes the Dunwich Horror you call dinner….. and out comes the praise: “Mighty good, babe! First rate chow!!” You fed yer man a meal…he loved it……out come the nips. Down go the drawers, on go the kneepads…..life is good. Until the next time. Fortunately, that beer larder is always stocked. And for a reason! Because we love you!
Now, godarnit!…get back out there you little cutie, light that stove and do your thing! We’re hungry!!
–jj solari
