Welp. After buying and losing tons of food, I was just told that I shouldn’t have bought it in the first place.
That it wasn’t my place to try to figure out what to buy. Which I did when nobody gave me a list because their memory is so bad from all the body pain that they can’t remember how to cook.
That’s why I didn’t get my lasagna (Gram’s recipe) or my orange cookies (my grandfather’s mom’s recipe) as requested.
And don’t get me fucking started on all the vegetables that have gone bad that I bought as side dishes for Christmas that never got cooked because GOD FORBID I went to spend three fucking hours with a colleage’s family who said come over for a slice of ham and a board game.
I asked for precious little this year. That was it. I begged for three months for these two things. And then I threw out the yucky ground beef (and I don’t eat beef anyway on a normal day), expired ricotta and jacked-up oranges that have been here seemingly since time began.
OH YEAH. And I bought a brand-new orange juicer at her request. Granted it was cheap. But still. I bring home the bacon and the damn contraption to make it with.
I mean, it’s not like she gets out to buy gifts. But this was the real wake-up call that her mind is really going.
And it’s not like I learned how to cook from her. I mean, I used to cook when I lived on my own. I even knew the recipes. But she’s also not a nice person in the kitchen.
I remember her throwing a box of Band-Aids not just at my head — but another at my grandmother’s, as she lay in her hospital bed in the living/dining room — when she got pissed off at us for breathing.
Since then, it’s not like I’ve tried to hang around in the kitchen and get the secrets to why her bacon-wrapped scallops are like the best thing EVER in this whole entire universe.
I’ve begged for years, write me a recipe book. I want to make my Great-Grandmother Anastasia’s Polish recipes. My other Great-Grandmother Jesse’s French recipes. My Grandmother Rose’s Italian recipes.
I already know I can buy all our traditional Jewish stuff at the local deli. And I can fake the Feast of the Seven Fishes just by raiding the local Publix and Costco meat counters.
But I can’t even spell half the things I grew up eating at Christmas and New Year’s. (Pierogi. And Paczki for Easter. Well that and Shit on the Shingles the rest of the year.)
Clearly, I don’t ever want to eat Shit on the Shingles again for as long as I live …
But it’s real hard to make the same “No Bullshit (insert year)” resolutions when that is EXACTLY what is emanating from the kitchen over the cajun pork tenderloin I picked up on a whim (hey! We are actually going to eat that!) and sauerkraut that I really want to know how to make but, really, what is the point when it might as well join the Halushki recipe that’s been lost to the ages.
I know I am going to regret these rage-filled posts. But if it keeps my trap shut and prevents a fight, I’m all about beating the shit out of my keyboard instead.
(Also, neighbors kept us up till 6 a.m. with what sounded like roller-skating across the ceiling, and Electronic Dance Music blaring. I fucking hope they die. Choke on a dick, you miserable fucks.)
Christ, I feel like a husband. Maybe I should find a good wife instead of looking for a man. One who has the Italian, French and Polish heritage who can feed my fat ass well.
