Frozen Dinner
Sometimes I get the
urge to cook. I mean really cook - not
the “adding some tuna to my KD” kind of cooking either, but real honest to
goodness cooking. On occasion I will
break out multiple pots, the food processor and maybe a double boiler if the
mood strikes. I will stand for hours
meticulously rolling little blobs of filling in the puff pastry, or drawing
little Christmas trees on the tops of cookies.
I’m not a fabulous chief, but I am capable in the kitchen.
Living alone makes it
difficult to really get excited about cooking.
I either devote an evening to preparing a fabulous meal only to eat in
front of the TV while watching “Wheel of Fortune”, or I heat up a pop tart and
wolf it down before heading out to be social with friends. The odd time I will prepare a decent meal to
eat myself. Sometimes I will even shoo
away the pigeons and eat outside and read a book. However, I usually opt for KD and TV.
Recently I discovered
that a friend of mine is slightly handicapped when it comes to culinary
skills. I prepared a shopping list for
the guy, and gave him several ideas for quick and easy meals that require zero
skill. He hesitated, and I knew the “try
it and see what happens” philosophy that I love so much was not really up his
ally. He needed someone to hold his hand
and show him how to cook pasta and dump in the ingredients to make
spaghetti. I offered to assist with
cooking dinner, and he quickly accepted my offer. I inquired on the contents of his fridge, and
discovered that a shopping trip was in order.
I love shopping. I
don’t care where, when or even for what.
Grocery shopping sounded magnificent (I had not been shopping in at
least a week, and this was posing a problem).
My friend crushed my shopping dreams, however. The boy did not want to “impose” on me too
much. WHAT???? When is shopping EVER an
imposition?
In spite of my
protests, he decided that he would buy the food himself. I was slightly concerned, as his fridge
contained a shriveled piece of fruit and the original plastic wrapping from the
manufacturer on the crisper drawers. I’m
not kidding. The drawers were totally
wrapped in plastic from when the fridge was delivered. Regardless, I gave a fairly comprehensive
shopping list, or so I thought. We
needed:
That was it. I also suggested maybe some vegetables. I left what veggies up to him.
When I arrived for
this little cooking lesson, he warned me that he knew nothing as far as the
kitchen was concerned. I was
prepared. I brought my own dish to cook
the meal in, as well as a selection of spices for the vegetables. I opened the fridge, and noticed that the
only thing inside was that lonely shriveled piece of fruit (I think at one time
it was an apple).
“Where is the
chicken?” I asked.
“It’s in the freezer”.
WHAT? The freezer?
It was pushing
I asked where the
chicken I asked for was, and he looked shocked.
I could just hear him thinking “chicken is chicken. What’s your problem?” I explained that we needed larger pieces of
chicken. He whipped out the list I gave
him, and his look of “You Never Told Me That satisfaction” vanished as I read
“Chicken – Legs, breasts, or thighs… larger pieces that still have the bone and
skin”.
I sighed, and returned
the chicken to the freezer. I guess we
were eating out! Then I noticed
something particularly odd. There was a
can of mushroom soup in the freezer. I
pulled it out, and inquired on the reason a can of
He said that he didn’t
want it to go bad. .
At that moment I think
men all around the world slapped their foreheads, muttering “Buddy, you’re
killing it for all of us”. Women all
around the world shook their heads.
I explained the many
reasons why one does not freeze cans of soup.
I expanded, and explained that nothing in a can should go in the freezer
while still in the can. I expanded further
to include food that is located on the shelves of a supermarket. “If you find it on a shelf, keep it on a
shelf”. I stopped myself, realizing that
it would be easier to have him call me after every single shopping trip for a
“where does this go?” conversation.
Especially when I noticed that the rice and a bag of spaghetti noodles
were in the freezer as well, along with a jar of unopened spaghetti sauce.
At this time I decided
that I had better take an inventory of his kitchen. I opened the cupboards and saw nothing but empty
shelves. I was surprised when I found
one full shelf. It had some paper plates
and a glass. I opened the stove and
laughed. There was some cardboard left
over from when it was delivered, and a bag with the user manual, and some other
miscellaneous remnants from the manufacture.
I checked the dishwasher and sure enough there was Styrofoam on each of
the racks put there to protect the machine during transport. I asked how long he had lived in this
particular place, and he casually told me three months. I asked if he has ever used his
dishwasher. He nodded, this time
sheepishly. I grabbed my purse and
headed for the door.
“I feel like Italian”