(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on December 28, 2009.)
Okay, okay. So the ugly sweater contest at work did rock a little bit. Every time someone decides to be an asshole to me at the torture pit, I will think back to the sweater contest and take solace in the fact that their fashion crimes will always overshadow any shitty thing I ever do at that place. How bad was it? Oh lawd, the ghost of Coco Chanel is going to haunt the lot of us for years to come. I could commit homicide and it would never ever be as bad as the blue cowboy on the pink horse on the grey cardigan or the sequined AND bejeweled number. Never. What’s worse is very few people actually went to places like Goodwill and Value Village to purchase these abominations against haute couture, or in this case, Office Casual. That’s right, these atrocities were *all whispery and tragic*hanging in their closets. Uh huh. Big. Fucking. Gasp. Best retort/defense I heard was this: “And I said to him (co-worker’s husband), as he was laughing hysterically, you probably fell in love with me while I was wearing this!” Yep. It was exactly like that. I, friends, am not creative enough to imagine this shit up and if I get my hands on pictures, I am soooo posting them!
Now, what did indeed suck ass was the potluck portion of the day's festivities. There were some lazy assed epic fails on that table. Let this be said, a bag of potato chips or nacho chips is flat out negligent and goes against the laws of a pot luck lunch. Even the munchkins who brought in desserts from the grocery store bakery get better points than you. You, dear, get cultural demerits. Like you have to wear that acrylic number you are sporting until you have that teenage boy goat-like odor.
The pot luck gawds were not shining on me. I was going to make not one or two dishes, but three. I know, how scandalous. Whatev’s. People flock to my desk when they smell my lunches. I had this shit locked up tighter than a duck’s ass puckered up for a nose dive. Or so I thought. I’m not even giving the ingredients this time around. I can’t be arsed. Yeah, that’s right, I don’t deal with failure well. If I had been a contestant on Top Chef, Tom Coliccio would tell Padma to tell me to pack my knives and fuck off. And they would be totally justified in doing so.
Reindeer dropping?
RASPBERRY SWIRL
This recipe is why I don’t bake. Baking is chemistry. Baking has rules that you have to follow, directions you must conform to. I don’t conform well and I think directions are for pussies who can’t figure it out on their own. I work in logistics quite by accident. I’m not a baker or pastry chef by choice. My entire training as a chef is cooking in a fast food restaurant for a couple of years and one semester of cooking/home economics in high school. The restaurant was a write off and the most profound thing I did in the home economics class was throw a used tea bag at Brian Preiston and Gordon Hodges. When it hit the edge of the counter and exploded everywhere, it immediately made up for five months of torture at the hands of The Mullet Boys!
This recipe turned out horribly and I’m sure the only people who will eat it are my nieces and only because there is raspberry jello on top. Do you know how to cook Cool Whip? I do. And I know how to do it using milk and marshmallows. Yes, you read that right but you can go back and re-read it. No, I will not be providing details privately by email.
TRUFFLES
Who doesn’t love a wee bit of chocolate at Christmas? Truffles and Christmas go together, right? The goddess of all things truffle must know I’m atheist because baby Jesus would have never been presented with this mess and I imagine only the steamers Santa’s reindeer produce look worse than what I created.
Here’s the thing, I was thinking, 4 ingredients, 4 instructions, easy peasy, done like dinner. Second small recipe to pacify the potluck brigade. I shouldn’t have thought. It should have been so simple and so splentastic. But it wasn’t, not even a little bit. Big fail. Epic fail. First things first… you need at least 2 hours for this mess to set. Secondly, when you figure out how to roll this shit (because that is exactly what it looks like when you’re rolling it) between two ice cubes so it does not melt all over you, drop me a line. I should have just showered it in coconut and called it forest fresh reindeer droppings.
HOT ARTICHOKE DIP
I got this right because I could fuck around with the ingredients. Well that and artichoke dip is pretty hard to fuck up. I added to it, watched it bubble and bake with love in my heart. And no one ate it. Potluck brigade was all “Oh we will get it set up for you” and they didn’t. I can't believe I was actually losing my mind in Costco wondering what the hell kind of crackers I should serve with this.
Fuck it. Next year its squares from the bakery at Safeway.
