Monday, March 19, 2012

lessons not learned

If you were hungover and thought cooking Indian food would make you feel better, you would be wrong...

24 hours earlier...

Yesterday was one of the most time honored traditions for all: St. Patrick's Day. My friend's and I have titled this "the Happiest Day in Dallas." Because for a few glorious hours, open container laws are thrown out the window and thousands of people flood the sidewalks of Greenville Avenue, watch a pretty lame parade, down green jello shots, and do awesome stuff like this:

St. Patrick's Day 2011

Since I attend a Nazi-run cosmetology school, missing a Saturday is out of the question. In fact, if you miss more than three in a year, you are dropped from the program completely. Therefore, I had to miss out on this year's festivities. To add insult to injury, in the Ugly Smoker's area where I take breaks to chain smoke Marlboro Lights to dull the pain of hearing my fellow students ask their millionth stupid question of the morning, I could HEAR the festivities!

I hadn't even planned on going out after school because all of my friends would be intoxicated to the point of being unrecognizable. However, my friend who worked that day wanted to go out and I knew he wouldn't be a slobbery, Bell's Palsy victim looking, drunken mess. So, I decided to go with him, have a few drinks, and not waste a Saturday night in the years of my life when Botox isn't necessary.

Well those 'few drinks' quickly escalated into a number of beers, a couple tequila shots, and me pouring myself into my bed like a puddle of dirty backwash at 3 AM. 

Now, I usually reserve my Sundays for recovery. And by 'recovery,' I mean I going to the grocery and preparing my meals for the week. I grew up in a family who considered cold cut sandwiches a primary food group, so I'm no stranger to leftovers. When I started working, I learned that my lunch hour was better served eating leftover, home-cooked meals and chain-smoking than driving around eating the same four fast food restaurants around my office five days a week.

This past week I broke my cardinal rule of break room etiquette and reheated some bomb ass shrimp and crab at school. Seriously, it smelled like a wet dog walked in on Oscar the Grouch making out with a dead manatee.

Yes, I am terrible person and don't deserve to have any of my dreams come true, but in my defense, the food was a gift from a friend's sweetheart mother who was visiting town and wanted me to have a really fancy lunch at school. Since it was school that had me missing a Ladies' Lunch she wanted to take me out on the night before.

Anyway, some of the more crass and idiotic students in the break room got all upset and catty looks and mean comments were exchanged between my friends and a table of queens and overweight girls at an adjacent table.

Naturally I had to brand myself a repeat offender. So, I decided to make one of my favorite dishes: chicken tikka masala. 

A previous successful execution of the aforementioned dish.

In my endeavor for culinary revenge, I was the one with the proverbial Band-Aid in my burrito. Halfway into the chicken, I felt the sudden urge to choke to death on my own vomit. I couldn't handle the spicy and usually delicious aromas. 

Also, my head couldn't much handle the mechanics of a recipe I have made tons of times before. I basically got into a screaming match with a bag of Mahatma Basamati rice. 

I have purchased and prepared this brand before, and was 1,000% certain something was off. The preparation called for 8 cups of water for 1 cup of rice AND the same amount for 2 cups of rice. I mean, that just can't be right. Surely I was victim of improper packaging instructions, but their website said the same thing... 

I still suspected foul play and decided to do it my way. Needless to say I ended up ruining A LOT of rice. This was also impacted by my inability to decipher the difference between the sentences: "reduce cooking TO 10 minutes" and "reduce cooking time BY 10 minutes." A subtle misread, and again, I'm glad rice is cheap.

I was in no state of mind to be near a stove, so I finished what I could and cracked open a can of this:

I then proceeded to meet my friends for a patio margaritas, because I am me, and learning from my mistakes is something I'll do around the time I start needing that Botox.



Lorraine said...

The Chef has saved me from many-a run in in the kitchen. I should probably learn the "stay away from the kitchen" lesson, but LOL. No.


Youngman Brown said...

Haha, wonderful recreation of the picture!