Do It All Dad does more than dishes.
Nachos should be fuck up stoner proof. Then again, so was Seth Rogan’s acting career, holla, thank you very much. Seth Rogan defending Minnesota rep Baby Face Omar’s Anti-Semitism on Twitter is adorable though. He says, “Give me one spec of evidence that proves House Of Representatives Rep Illhan Omar hates Jewish New Yorkers, besides comparing 9/11 to Amy Winehouse’s death as “something happened”, to a beehive sporting, horn hiding, parasitical Jewess, who exploited the great Palestinian Songbook for all it was worth.”
If I’m totally honest, most nachos at bars suck, besides this one batch I had at Top Golf in Vegas before I saw Aerosmith live with an old school bud from LA, when hearing Steven Tyler belt out Chip Away At The Stone live was a top priority of the summer versus our eventual Burning Mask Party back east instead. But at the time, I was too stoned off legal Vegas weed to recall the specifics on why this batch of nachos was so much more amazing than the rest. Chances are, the nachos weren’t saggy gross like cottage cheese conjuring thighs on wives who have to gross you out further by declaring they’re on Weight Watchers, counting calories now, because if you’re a true feminist, it isn’t fair for just overweight dads on most CBS sitcoms to stop giving a shit about how they look naked in bed after marrying their lifetime partners in love for the time being.
Shitty nachos have weird, unasked for additions like sliced canned black olives, flavorless cheese or heat stripped Jalapenos, which is equivalent to a no touch lap dance policy and twice as deflating. If your homemade nachos aren’t inviting a non-stop barrage of rock steady blissed out bites then you probably dialed back the cheese factor like Jon Bon Jovi trading in his luscious locks for the grizzled, shortened, gender neutral Roger Waters grey plop on top look. But there’s no reason to tone down the cheese, when making Nachos because you’re not trying to reinvent yourself as the more mature, career stable Axl Rose in the process. I’ve made my kids various homemade batches of nachos yet my after-school nosh batch I made yesterday, rocked them all, because I wasn’t afraid to go overboard with the heart warming, good kind of cheese like eighties Journey, Chicago, REO Speedwagon had a baby. Specifically, I used an entire zipper packet of Trader Joe’s Mexican combo cheese, showcasing Monterey, Queso, Pepper Jack and Mozzarella, which is all your primo batch of nachos need. Other cheeses to melt on your bomb after school nachos such as cheddar don’t work nearly as good because they exude a less compatible musky heft like the Italian six string gunslinger Richie Sambora refusing to shave his chest hair for once in the presence of baby-faced Jon during the Wanted Dead Alive scrapped music video outtakes.
You can’t just splatter a bunch of pre-shredded cheese on top of a pile of pre-made Tortilla chips and think you’re made in the shade like after Slippery When Wet went triple platinum before Kip Winger contemplated asking for his groupie’s ID backstage again. Bon Jovi followed up Slippery When Wet with the equally masterful, superior in parts, double album New Jersey by doubling down on their nah, nah, nah, nah, cheesy magic on such rocking, dramatic leering songs such as Born To Be My Baby and I’ll Be There For You. At the same time, Bon Jovi rounded out their wall of cheesy sound with subtler, more varied, tingly flavor on songs such as Living In Sin. So, you shouldn’t shy away from injecting a deeper injection of personalized pop to your homemade nachos either by taking the time to caramelize drained, washed black beans, sweet cut up yellow onions, blasts of lime on top while adding olive oil fried up leaves of baby spinach before going for the all-out assault of shredded cheese before broiling the cheesy, veggie laced, greased up tortilla chips in the oven at high 400 for ten minutes max in a blaze of glory. Also, add a plop of whole milk yogurt for a dipping sauce in the middle of your nacho tray, which is significantly less cheesy than using your standard always too sour, sour cream.
Digging into the mouthwatering pile of afterschool nachos with my 3 kids. bumping our elbows together in the process, made me feel so brand-new young. Blood on blood nosh attacks on this level of kick ass magnitude give all forms of deeply flavorful, insanely joyous, chant worthy hair metal conjuring cheesiness a good name.
Growing up, my mom’s Kosher chicken cutlets only got interesting whenever she threw some sautéed white mushrooms in garlic and parsley on top. These weren’t meaty mushrooms such as the mighty meaty Portobello, substantially chewy scrumptious Shitake Mushrooms or delectable Geisha light Oyster Mushrooms either. Whatever mushrooms they sold at A&P in the eighties and early nineties got the job done. Blue Cheese on burgers wasn’t a thing yet, Lamb Burgers forget about it. Back then, you were lucky to find a deli who made sandwiches with barely defrosted iceberg lettuce, you didn’t chip a tooth on, which looked more Bill Burr white, than sickly discolored green whenever his Dad threw on the old Golden Gloves for Saint Patrick’s Day again.
For Hanukkah, my mother always made her specialty stuffed baked, destemmed Baby Bella Bomb Mushroom with a delicious garlic, parsley, breadcrumb concoction, with some cream cheese mixed in between, to keep it Jewy enough, which helped counterbalance the Mariah Carey Christmas songs at full blast on constant rotation before Derek Jeter broke into her star studded snatch before Puff blew it up beyond recognition, holla, thank you very much. So, I was bound to try recreating some magic mushroom love on my own someday and be a tad less gun shy about munching on some magic mushroom tripping caps in college eventually. My senior year in high school, I’d order an occasional mushroom slice for lunch to, so I wasn’t fussy about eating the psychedelic, dry, woodsy, dried caps straight up with no chaser either. Illmatic lives holla thank you very much. I didn’t ask my boarding school burnout bud Gledhill at the time to place the magic tripping caps into a warmed up spinach wrap, with some arugula and goat cheese, to fend off any anxiety consumed panic attack from eating the cow shit birthed mushrooms by themselves alone, all alone, Heart lives, holla, thank you very much.
But my 1st brush with mushroom madness wasn’t from getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles my freshman year in college around my Deadhead crew within a dorm room the size of Hunter Biden’s slow days stash closet. Nor did I experience uncontrollable mushroom madness from feeling up a Sequoia tree in the valley on some magic caps in the most sensual, love thy tree like your hot neighbor with the big sun spot tits way, feeling’s God’s vibrating presence from within, before I receive a call on my pre-smart phone from my tripping roommate in the park and hear, “That light piercing through back the of your head isn’t God, it’s the police. Pull up your parents, were out of here.”
No, I had to make my own 1st batch of stuffed Portobello Mushrooms with spinach, peeled Roma tomatoes and fontina cheese, to experience my 1st brush of mushroom madness, because it felt like I was eating a dirt sandwich from a health food store in a 70’s Albert Brooks movie as I mutter to myself, “Isn’t Fontina Cheese high in cholesterol? And how do you live with yourself charging sky high prices for an overseas melting cheese not included in the Fondue set I got as a housewarming gift from Penny Marshall after Lost In America became a smash success? That’s how I got to cast Gary Marshall as the Pit Boss in Lost In America. You don’t know who Gary Marshall is? Don’t worry about it. All you need to know, is there’s no business like show business.”
The problem was I forgot to wipe the dirt off my mushroom caps from the nearby farmers market and I didn’t have a personal Shaman with an open third eye to point out my oblivious oversight. Till then, I never knew what dirt actually tasted like because I had neck surgery at 2 and my parents shielded me from high contact sports like Football, so I had no idea of what a face full of dirt tasted like until I bit through my Portobello sandwich, which turned me off from trying to unearth Portobello magic for almost a whole decade on the backyard coal grill making sandwiches with goat cheese and bitter greens on a Ciabatta roll instead. I felt so dirty after crunching on multiple bites of actual specked dirt. It felt like I was caught pleasuring myself to she male stamps ads in the LA Weekly behind a garbage dump off Santa Monica Blvd. in broad daylight on a Tuesday at hard 11am, as the smell of musky ball sack permeates through boy’s town air. Andy Dick lives holla, thank you very much.
The last time I experienced mushroom madness on this infuriatingly dejected level was this past Sunday after I made the decision to give my kids a brush with mushroom magic by making them a Moosewood classic, Moosewood being a famous vegetarian restaurant and prolific cookbook publisher in Ithaca, NY . I transferred to Ithaca College my junior year because I outgrew tripping on mushrooms and feeling up trees in my spare time for the time being. Still, I hate to be married to any script, unless I wrote it of course, but even then, I like to mix things up, and make things less dronishly, climax free predictable. So I decided to dice up the cleaned, stuffed Portobello’s, brushed with a mix of sesame and Tamari Sauce which is a thicker yet slightly watered-down soy sauce, think Jon Cho from Harold and Kumar Got To White Castle. Those same stuffed mini-UFO size Portobello mushrooms were also filled with a combo of high-end peanut butter called Smooth Operator, an old school peanut butter shop in the West Village, ginger, diced up red peppers and shredded, dehydrated firm soy. Although the funky fresh Umami twist. was mixing these bomb supreme, magically flavorful fungi with some buckwheat Soba noodles, which all 3 of my kids slurped up with instant glee, instantly. Me taking 2 plus hours to make the entire dish, helped my kids readiness factor to attack the dish to, as we listened to Too Fast For Love on Vinyl from Motley Crue from start to finish, before mama got home from work later that evening after working in Lactation playing the role of unofficial boob doctor whisperer consultant all day long.
Along the way, I tapped into my age of innocence with renewed fervor and played an inspired air guitar version of Too Fast For Love with our broom stick, hailing Motley Crue’s guitar slayer, Mick Mars as the Freddy Kruger of Shredding. Who I need to write an article about one day in the hopes of selling it to fucking Pitchfork, Guitar World, or just posting another non billable blog post such as Shredding Hackneyed Hair Metal Cliches, anything but bearing the brutal thought of not letting the world know more about the most underrated metal guitar shredder of all time. Too Fast For Love, Motley Crue’s debut album, which they recorded in 2 weeks straight max, is by far the their most melodic ferocious, heart thumping, power punk pop record, ever put on wax by the 4 Hair Metal horseman. Too Fast For Love is the Hair Metal version of Exile on Main Street by the Stones, when Mick Mars, the oldest band member of his crew, made the guitar sound like a fucking buzz saw, shredding those strings to shreds as if the child support payments from his 1st marriage in his late twenties depended on it. Now, I’m not comparing my leisurely recreation of some Sunday slow mushroom magic to Mick Mar’s playing with his back against the wall on Motley Crue’s Too Fast For Love, although paying child support felt like the incoming imminent reality later that evening, after I flip out on my wife for pointing out how the food was great, but “The kitchen needs cleaning.” Words of wisdom ladies, when your husband bangs out another all-star dinner after looking after the kids all weekend, with no virtual grandparents in sight, resist the urge to minimize the specialness of the meal by treating him like the fucking help. Next time my wife wants to get intimate on E pills for old time sake, I’ll say, “But you haven’t gotten me that promised boob job 3 kids later yet. I think I’ll just feel up our tree in the garden instead. You’re not the only stump humper in this relationship, you know.”
Trust is earned from sustained excellence such as Leo’s star powered acting performances in any Tarantino film without fail. Trust makes the world go around. Trust went out the window after Liver Spots got sworn in as President of the United States without a peep from the Supreme Court the day after Democracy died. But the Leo Scramble Supreme still reigns supreme and is trustworthy enough to entrust your happiness in him for better days and more hope filled tomorrows, pregnant with superior feel-good possibility. James Brown lives, holla, thank you very much.
Plus, making a LEO, consisting of Lox, Eggs and Onions will always remain an ideal anti-Semitic qualifier gift such as my Great American Jew Novel, knowing this divine blessed delectable breakfast, brunch or dinner worthy delight consists of pricy, cut up, overtly Jewy smoked salmon, caramelized onions and scrambled eggs from local Jewish Farmer legend behemoth, good old Stew Leonard in Connecticut, before the warm, sumptuous, funky fishy ingenious concoction get’s swirled into a bowl with a plop of Cream cheese, which melts easier in a hot bowl of eggs, adding a deeper svelte, thicker tasting dimension of deliciousness, which catapult your burst of feel good joy that much higher, Sly Stone lives, holla, thank you very much.
I hate to get political anymore since thé once boastful construct we the people offered less special value than Prince Harry’s bald spot on the open market or his feel for comedy after dressing up like a Nazi officer for Halloween to get back at mom for looking like an ugly version of E from Entourage, with far less a plus snatch to snag in London town compared to perpetually sunny, twice as smoking hot California girls. Megan Markle doesn’t count, and it’s not because she’s a biracial, royal pain in the ass, holla, thank you very much.
Now, if Prince Harry roasted himself dressed up like a Nazi officer for Halloween, I’d give hardcore Archie some funny man cred, regardless if Ricky Gervais wrote the material for him, who tires of Holocaust films because he’d rather bitch in his latest stand up comedy special about harsh online tweets about his movie career, which never got off the ground, reducing him to be in bed with the Obama’s and Netflix since HBO gave him a nice run while it lasted, now more concerned with unmasking Woody’s go to suck the thumb move, because it, “Calms Dylan down”, despite still showing all of his classic, hilarious films such as Broadway Danny Rose, which technically speaking, came out pre-Soon-Yi. But Louie can’t whip it out in his own dressing room after getting consent from fellow no name lesser female comics in the room without all of his standup comedy specials being taken down in a NY minute from HBO once the full court #meto career work retrospective cancelation began. Have they taken down the Rocky statue in Philly yet because it promotes white supremacy? But back to Ricky Gervais giving Price Harry some primo bashing Nazi material, to at least project the façade of being an ironic detached enjoyer viewer of Jewish humor, such as, “Who would Hitler kill first? A Jewish Albino or a balding ginger with a goatee? And how dumb is the swastika symbol. I don’t care that’s it Hindu, it still looks 2 stick figures doing a sixty-nine on a see saw.”
So back to the Leo Scramble Supreme, my son Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound Too Woo,.can’t enough of it. He’s 4 by the way. The kid can request for me to play Slippery When Wet by Bon Jovi on Vinyl or in the car through Spotify, can ask daddy to reheat the rest of his Leo Scramble Supreme, yet still can’t go to bed without a nappy, without me dropping his saggy, drenched filled nappy down our stairwell the following morning, only to sing, with unmatched, father son bonding glee, “Big plopping”, Warrant Lives, they sang Big Talking, holla, thank you very much.
Again, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo no longer dumps in his pants and goes to the bathroom for a number 2 with big boy precision. At the same time, one night, as I got ready to read the Guinness Book Of World Records, wanting to kill myself soon after from learning how much money Kevin Hart made last, year, which doesn’t make me a hater, just a bemused, short on laughs spectator. I do love his energy, and don’t think he’s a bad actor, whose gotten better over time, whom I believe, should buy the film rights to convert an autobiography of Wilson Picket to snag him 1 Oscar more than Eddie, who doesn’t have the balls to do a stand up comedy special again for some dumb reason such as not wanting to be deemed a divisive comedian who dared to make fun of Michelle Obama’s new parody remake, playing Tina Turner, titled, “What’s Talent Got To Do With It.” And Wilson Picket sang my favorite lyric, “I found a true love, and I can shout about her, yeah, yeah”, a truer call to action that I give a shit about taking, not uttered on LinkedIn, as never been blasted with such soul man reverberating bravado, holla, thank you very much. Anyway, this meandering piece is what you get when I’m off Adderall and my mother is in town blaming the great state of Texas for having to burn fucking furniture while Liver Spots can’t be bothered to visit or have FEMA offer nothing more than air dropped leftover Spam reserves from World War 2 or some impossible to defrost packets of TANG leftover from our moon landing the sixties before we learned JFK told Frank to not invite Sammy Davis Junior to his inauguration, because becoming a Jew, was a double whammy against him, which he should’ve known would put his desirability factor in extreme Jeopardy with Nazi profiteering Joe Kennedy in control of his son’s balls as a whole, regardless of the war hero “Being the brightest star in the universe for a time”, according to his backstabbed friend, old blue eyes, who didn’t sing New York, New York, until his late 60’s during his more pleasantly content plump years.
Yeah, so back to my son Chosen Curls, I’m getting ready for reading time and about to throw some sweats on for the occasion because I don’t give a shit about looking like a Trophy Dad when mama isn’t home at 9 on a Tuesday and my 4-year-old son barks at me, “Spread your cheeks.” I said, “Where the hell did you learn the expression, “Spread your cheeks”? Are you watching old episodes of OZ on the HBO app when I’m banging out more all-star chapter additions to my collection of short stories, Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories or what?”
So, the LEO Scramble Supreme is the bomb and couldn’t be easier to make, even Hunter Biden can handle making it with the hangover from hell, whose hell raising ways, makes my younger brother come off as a serial underachiever. And if a man is judged by the fruit he enables, and if Liver Spots is a real man of unifying integrity, why wouldn’t Mr. Unity tell his son to cut out creaming into his dead brother’s wife after his cremation ensued? The most amount of loving attention to the Leo Scramble Supreme is paid toward the caramelizing of the onions in butter under a low heat, but make sure to add some extra deepening caramelizing agent at the end, which could be simple as a drop of pristine NY tap water or from bottled Smart Water, which adds an extra spring step to your step, making you feel like Jennifer Aniston on the rebound. After you caramelize the onions, mix them into beat up egg batter mix, with chopped up pieces of smoked salmon before dropping them into a semi hot pan, bubbling with butter yumminess itching to be immersed with such delectable, pristine, bright orange, slivers of smoked salmon but don’t be too aggressive with swirling the eggs into mini circulation motions before they get cooked through enough, before reaching the point of rubbery sucky return. The last step is throwing the LEO Scramble Supreme into a bowl with a pre-plopped mound of cream cheese, which makes swirly stick together as one magic possible and like my son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, you’ll be made in the shade, made in the shade.
Grilled fish tacos are lame, especially the ones from Baja Fresh, a popular health-conscious LA fast food chain, where your sense of charming individuality and personalized edge flat line to death and die. Are grilled fish tacos healthier than battered fried ones? Did Tony Gwynn strike out less than a teen George Brett at Daytona Beach on Spring Break? Also, did the 8-time batting champion, who batted .391 in 94, who hit .412 against the equally nerdy Greg Maddox in the post season, ever leave the impression, he’d spray even more doubles all over Petco Stadium if he went on a diet with Kirby Puckett and only ate In and Out Burgers ATKINS style, using lettuce as buns instead? If you’ve never made your own homemade Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter Baja Fish Tacos or never sampled the all-star goods from San Diego founded, famed fast food Tex-Mex chain Rubio’s, to inhale their battered fish burrito in 7 bites max, then your life sucks more than the snotty clogged Lupus from the Bad News Bear, before he snags a high fly ball over right field and chants with sudden clear voiced, take no shit bravado, “Just wait till next year”, before pouring beer on Miguel who looks like the uncoordinated Latino Tony Gwyn in the making.
Now, I’ve fried up Icelandic Cod using the standard, eggs, flour and panko breadcrumbs, or from using homemade discarded breadcrumbs ones, blah, blah, blah, yet all those crispy exteriors, even the non-blotchy, all covering coating jobs were flimsier than Wade Boggs power numbers against Roger Clemens during batting practice compared to my Lagunitas infused beer battered one. Regardless, if Nolan Ryan drank the cocksure Roger Clemens under the table the previous night and beat his ass in darts with overpowering, clutch precision, only to throw the upstart hothead into a crippling headlock for trying to call fake news bullseyes one too many times over a high stakes game of darts during All-Star weekend in Houston, when Robert Redford was deemed young enough to play the Natural because the casting director wanted a more stoic, wooden version of Kevin Costner if possible.
Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter slams all other breaded exterior concoctions out of the park by providing far superior crunch, snap and pop like Barry Bonds on the HGH, before his balls become the size of gumballs, better suited for the kid in the Bazooka Joe comic strips back in the day. Still, the added juicy, crackling oomph my Lagunitas IPA beer batter, mixed with rice flour, flour and baking powder required more rounded out flavor to make this Baja fish taco, the go to hot dog substitute to snag at the ballgame in Petco Field where the San Diego Padres play because HGH alone wasn’t responsible for Barry Bond’s breaking, Hammering Hank’s homerun record, knowing if I took steroids at sleepaway camp, I just would’ve struck at a more accelerated speed. If you’re going to make a consistently clutch, hit heavy Baja fish taco from home, you must add more boogie down balance and funky snap by rounding out the lineup with a homemade pickled, purple cabbage slaw with jalapenos and Mexican oregano in addition to spreading the mini warmed flour tortilla with plenty of sumptuous, chipotle adobe mayo crema love, lined with plenty of chili powdered, in your face, spiky kick like the edge of Ty Cobb’s extra sparkly cleats up your ass, as he flew home like a bat out of hell in another blaze of natural born killer glory.
The Baja Fish tacos were a real hit with my kids, earning plenty of, “delicious nods”, so much so that I decided to make it a double header and serve them on back-to-back to nights this past weekend, doing my best hit heavy, consistently clutch, Mr. Sand Diego impression with endless joy spewing, Spring Training is almost here cheer. For back-to-back nights, in our humble east coast Abode, Tony Gwynn, Mr. San Diego, the 1st ballot hall of famer, who would’ve most likely hit 400 or higher similar to Ted Williams during the abbreviated 94 strike seasoned lived again, especially knowing he didn’t become so pleasantly plump like fellow high average hitting sluggers such as John Kruck in the 90’s from sticking to protein shakes and black bean soup for after double header game feasts to. Even Don Mattingly, Mr. Neat, would’ve gotten his mustache and pristine pinstripes drenched in the crema from these Big Ups Batter Up Beer Battered Baja Fish Tacos, to eat his little hometown blues away, especially after the 94-strike season killed his shot at playing for the Yankees in the World Series, only to rip the ball off its seams into his favorite go to right field pocket in the House That Ruth Built, to make his own childhood Natural fantasy come true to.
Weekend memories of my mom’s Kraft Mac and Cheese don’t fill me with comforting ease. For some reason, the mere image of a half-eaten bowl in the sink gives me imminent deathly chills inside, like the time I started pissing on myself after snorting Crystal Meth prior, thinking it was just exceptionally pure, uncut Cocaine, because after only 1 line, 5 hours later, I kept pronouncing out loud to myself, “This shit is great”, like a coked-out Tony Tiger used to bad coke which tastes like chalky AJAX. In my mom’s defense, she worked full time as a Loan Officer for JP Morgan in Manhattan, so I can’t blame her for mailing it in on Saturdays by throwing together some Kraft Mac and Cheese, knowing my dad’s half ass, serially undersalted, sickly looking, off yellow, scrambled eggs made before Basketball practice on Saturdays weren’t filling me with unconditional lovely cheer either. Again, I can’t totally shit on my parents half-hearted weekend creations in the kitchen throughout the eighties and early nineties, because Brunch wasn’t a thing yet, nor was any craft put into making mac and cheese from scratch yet, using a plethora of fancy foreign, pricy cheeses such as specs of imported Parm, always sultry smooth Italian Fontina or rind free French brie. Lobster Mac and Cheese wasn’t conceived yet by some fabulous, brunch visionary hot spot restaurant owner in West Hollywood who longed for something dreamier to sink his teeth into at noon on a Saturday hungover, basking in the gorgeous LA patio sun after being burnt out on being reared on fried egg topped cheeseburgers from Fat Burger in Van Nuys as a kid, who shared less in common with Adam Carolla growing up, than the Wheatgrass bartender for Jamba Juice.
So, for Super Bowl Sunday this year, this old G, decided to make my own Mac Daddy version of Mac and Cheese, to make my 3 Koshertarian kids yell with unmatched glee, “Party time, excellent, I feel the funk.” Not, “Who’s that black chick with Austin Powers in that commercial Daddy? Is she a mini me version of Queen Latifah? I don’t get it.” My plan of attack was to create a Mac Daddy and Cheese that wasn’t to cheesy like the Phantom of The Opera halftime show, because nothing screams half time entertainment more than a bunch of jilted, creepy looking dancers in masks putting on a zero thrills production of Phantom Of the Opera meets Friday The 13th during the year of COVID 19, which has unmasked all the propagandists in the media, who prop up fakes news working class heroes such as Bruce Springsteen who blames his manager for never paying taxes till he got on the cover of Times Magazine after Born To Run blew up but I digress. Bruce pretended he was on Acid to avoid being drafted yelling, “War, what’s it good for? Besides fodder for my upcoming Born In The USA album, about my fake news brother who dies in Vietnam. Does your office look like Salvador Dali took a giant kaleidoscope shit on your desk? And why does Uncle Sam keep pointing at me? It’s not my fault Sandy is a miserable, knocked up diner waitress, who was born to cry in the dark and die alone in the Swamp Thing State.”
Still, the Super Bowl is an American tradition, so I based my Mac Daddy and Cheese dish around the east coast standard, always unifying, pretentious free, yellow Landa Lakes American Cheese. Understand, my wife openly detests American Cheese because she’s a more evolved hick who grew up in the hinterlands of Brisbane Australia, who grew up playing with mud in the yard, knowing she only grew up with 2 TV stations in the outback and if you’ve seen one episode of Astro Boy, you’ve seen them all. So, making my star standalone dish for Super Bowl Sunday based on yellow Landa Lakes American cheese required some level of American made balls, knowing what potential, all knowing resistor fury, lurked in the nearby distance as Tom Brady continued the greatest winning streak in life ever recorded, which helps when you’re reunited with the always reliable Gronk, as your go to, money in the bank, tight friend. At the same time, I didn’t want the American cheese to be the sole attraction, similar to The Weekend surrounding himself with the most unattractive, peaceful protestors against the savagery of self-esteem enhancing plastic surgery within the Sunshine scurrying state.
My kids love Broccoli, like myself, assuming you make it with love, destem all the florets, blanch them in a bucket of ice water you’d pour on Bill Parcels if it was made of Gatorade back in the day, before I sautéed them in a butter, high end olive oil, sliced shallots and peeled off bits of garlic, to ensure the gorgeous flowers of green, matched the intensity of hop forward wonderfulness of my pounded 90 Minute Dog Fish IPA prior, which took me only 9 minutes to finish my second.
I used pasta macaroni shells from some Italian pasta maker, which cost 3 buck max in addition, made a basic bechamel, including, butter, flour, milk and spicy brown mustard to help the green goodness stick together with the torn-up bits of American Cheese and olive oil massaged Mac Daddy shells, which looked like glistening tubes of inhalatory perfection. The only complaint I received was Daddy using a tad too much fresh ground pepper to spice things up, beyond memories of boxed Kraft Mac and Cheese, which are too uncomfortably queasy to replicate for the mere ease of convenience sake for my taste.
I’m not going to call my Mac Daddy and Cheese the Tom Brady of Mac and Cheeses, although my 4-year-old son continuing to polish off his bowl even after his mac and cheese cooled is still sustained excellence in my book to.
Remember your dad taking you sledding? Yeah, I don’t either. I do recall the red flying saucer sled, which never achieved anything close to resembling manic speed, compared to my 4-year old’s son new Snow Screamer, which is slicker than Michael Jackson’s moon walk before we learned how he got away with murdering kids age of innocence like a smooth criminal. Also, if Michael Jackson were alive today, how would he defend himself against his Neverland accusers exactly? All the Beatles royalty points in the world, can’t buy me love.
I shared video of my son Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, sledding down a huge hill on a local golf course on his new Snow Screamer with my mom who lives Arizona, with the headline, winter loving, having a blast. Sometimes, I can’t help being a passive aggressive c word to my mother, knowing her standard line this time every winter in February is, “How are you handling the cold Scoops?” Growing closer to my 3 Koshertarian comedian children the more laughs and yummy dances I get, yeah, yeah, yeah. Also, doesn’t my mom realize it would be in equal poor taste, if I were to text her this summer, “How are you handling melting to death in the Arizona August sun again mom? Have you fried up a Chorizo egg scramble on your side patio tile yet? Is it hard to block out the smell of burning rubber from your Nike flip flops, mask on or not?”
My mother’s reply to the sledding video of her grandson whizzing down the golf course hill at ridiculous speed, was, “He’s fearless”, and she had no clue about the Peach Linzer Tart Hardcore Hunga Treat Trophy I got him afterwards in honor of his obvious bravery and his hardcore edge knowing he wasn’t wearing any Freezie Freakie Gloves and only wearing a thin a layer of pajama pants on to. I was in a rush to get all 3 of my kids to the golf course for a rapid barrage of sled runs before darkness fell because I still had to buy some canned pineapple later for my planned Koshertarian Chicken Fried Rice Dish soon after, so the pajama pant oversight on my part, only enhanced my 4-year old’s hard-core appeal in the end. Fearless, but my mother hates her grandson’s need for a Floatie in their Arizona Estate Pool, whose gone on record how she refuses to erect another netted pool fence in his honor ever again, for our next annual Arizona visit. That’s right, the pool fence is an eye sore. You’d think the pool fence my parents got temporarily installed to prevent their grandchild from drowning to death resembled the barbed wire fencing on the cover of an Elie Wiesel novel. Still, the slight danger element to sledding or when doing Improv in front of a live audience for your graduation show at UCB, where you ended up playing a gay swamp monster and received howls of approval in return, got me thinking about the importance of never being too married to whatever your initial dinner dish presentation was without leaving room to make last minute adjustments, instead of being held hostage by fear filled, sealed in stone failure forever.
It doesn’t matter what my original vision of my dish was, which was to make a Koshertarian Chicken Fried Rice dish using pineapple, green onions, and cilantro for some diversified springy adornment crunch on top. What matters was keeping myself loose enough on the cooking stage to make a last-minute adjustment, if I were to ever reclaim my kids respect as a star powered Do It All Dad Cook again. Whenever you’ve done stand-up comedy or Improv, you become consumed with self-lacerating fury whenever you don’t get laughs. Do It All Mom’s also wear their dejection on a sleave and become progressively pissed off at their kids, if their dinner dish, made with love or not, is received with nothing but sneering disdain from their kids, especially if there was a grand vision and a significant semblance of preparation and excessive chopping involved. Whenever my kids reluctantly slog through eating another obligatory bite from one of Mama’s quicky thrown together, Instant pot dishes, where the stems on the Cauliflower are thicker than Joe Theisman’s ankle after Lawrence Taylor almost snapped his entire leg off back in the day, mama will always attack her dinner table audience for not appreciating it’s nuanced, eccentric wonderfulness. All of a sudden, insisting our 3 Koshetarian comedian children are a bunch of ungrateful, unsophisticated, twats, unworthy of such exotic rounded goodness. But when my wife does this, she divorces herself from any form of self-correcting awareness along the way, which only sets herself up for increased, repeated failure and further depreciation of her cooking skills brand again and again.
Look, I used to be guilty of blaming the audience when they didn’t laugh at my jokes either but sucking to the core, forced me to dig deeper and work harder at making it impossible for the audience to resist sucking off my new and improved, material next time around. Another valuable lesson I received from taking UCB 101, is to spend more time actively listening to your scene partner, versus force feeding any predetermined shtick, which never gelled, because it didn’t arise naturally from the scene being created in real time, which is supposed to be a conversation rooted in your rapidly developing made up reality, versus a wrong way, cringe inducing monologue U Turn about your rage issues directed toward your mother who called your desire to write a screenplay back then as being,“Too ambitious.” I’ve applied these hard-earned lessons to how I innovate in the kitchen with my 3 kids, which explains why I generate more yummy dances galore than Mama does, because I don’t blame my kids for being stupid hicks for not loving her brown shit looking black bean soup, thereby allowing no room for any last-minute improvisational flourish to help win back her kids interest in giving a shit about what momentous free création mom put together next. In other words, you don’t grow as a comedian or cook if you’re constantly blaming the audience for their sucky reaction to your creations again. More importantly, if you care about killing in the kitchen to, don’t become fixated with sticking with your dreamy, grandiose, sure fire hit creation in your mind, when it doesn’t get the immediate, all consuming, loving reaction you envisioned it would receive. You think God was overjoyed with T.J Miller’s fake news standup special on HBO? No, so he got him fired from Silicon Alley, forcing him to write some funnier jokes or act outs that don’t involve egging himself on stage like a poor man’s Carrot Top, minus the six pack of abs, residency in Vegas and more hilarious hidden gem treasured bits up his sleeve.
Even good old honest Abe once said, “The voice of the people is second only to God”, which means, the audience will always tell you what’s working and what needs work by either their lack of emotiveness or crushing disappointment worn on their face. After one bite of my Koshertarian Chicken Fried Rice with bit of scrambled egg, green onion cilantro and pineapple, my daughter’s face froze up in disgust. All of a sudden, her face was completely motionless, as if she was doing everything in her power to hide her shock of disdain for her Do It All Dad’s latest bust creation but failing miserably to conceal the perplexed, jaw dropping, abject horror eating up her soul alive. Granted, my daughter Singing Rose Kornbluth, expects me to deliver the goods and you only get good at anything, when you possess a passionate, all-consuming desire to keep your hardcore fans happy in addition to a burning, manic urge to constantly outdo whatever you did before with over-the-top fearless relish, like any self-respecting fearless maniac would.
So, I took one final look at my daughter’s face, which screamed, “You’ve got to be kidding me with this shit dada. I had to wait till 7pm on a weekday for this slop? How does it take so long to just plop bits of chicken into some oatmeal with some canned pineapple thrown on top? If this rice were any mushier, you could make it into a Jennifer Garner movie about rebounding from her breakup with JJ Abraham’s on the Hallmark Channel.”
So, thank God, my UCB improv training kicked in to full gear as I took my 1st bite out of my Koshtertarian Chicken Fried Rice bust, thinking, “My daughter isn’t a know it all, teen bitch in the making after all. I better get creative to save what remnant of respect my daughter has for my Do It All Dad cooking prowess immediately. Then, I dart into the kitchen to grab some sweet chili sauce, which I introduced my kids to recently over some frozen egg rolls mama got from Trade Joes’ to give the standard, cheap, starter appetizer some much needed oomphy zing. In the end, the last minute improvised add on addition of much needed sweet chili sauce saved my dish from dying a premature, depressingly dreary death. Plus, my kids regained faith in their Do It All Dad’s improv chops once again, proving I’ll always get by with a little help from my Koshtertarian comedy friends.
So, like Adam Sandler’s character Donny Berger says to his friend Vanilla Ice in the hilarious movie, That’s My Boy, “You better stop, collaborate and listen.” And if your kids are less than enthralled from your latest and greatest creation, there’s a reason. I wouldn’t want it any other way, because Koshertarian Comedians will never rule if they remain nothing more than cry, cry, babies.
He who controls the spice controls the universe.”
― Frank Herbert, Dune
You want to make Chili with legs? Then, look less gross making it in your oversized red and black checkered flannel shirt and trim your poor man’s ZZ Top beard. You’re a hot sauce sales rep from Long Island, not an oil rig owner’s slacker son from Odessa, Texas.
Being naughty adds zest to our days and has no age. For example, for lunch today I offered my son a mini-Diet Coke if he promised to not pound it in one sip and put it away back in the fridge to sneak in other sips once night falls the way he normally does. Although this time, my 7-Year-Old son says, “It’s not any fun that way. I’d rather sneak in the sips behind your back as usual.” Understand, my son isn’t a problem child, who’s way sweeter than naughtier by nature compared to his old man. Granted, he’s only 7 and his Internet search history searching for Harry Potter Lego building videos on his Amazon Fire doesn’t make him Kid Rock calling 1st dibs on the barebacking train with Gianna Michaels at the AVN awards after party in Vegas, without bothering to pull out to leave those jizz freeing beauties a pearl necklace in redneck paradise.
But how do we get kids into chili who associate spicy food with drawn out, unsolicited agony on par with commercials ruining their cloud free TV? First, make your chili out of love, imbibed with generous heaping’s of layered spiced flavor like any Kid Rock album where he sings, “I’m going to New Orleans, someone is going to treat me right and going to have a crawfish pie to start my day.” You never had crawfish before? Imagine shrimp with personality. Chili devoid of spice is hot Gazpacho soup with depressingly dreary beans. Still, you can’t make spicy Chili for your kids, without raising their tolerance for spice or risk 1s,t, or they’ll be less likely to trust your urgings to take a walk on the wild side again, like the time you pushed your 3 kids to power through the watering hole in Woodstock with an unexpected, far from chill current on your tail or the time you encouraged your son to jump off the swing to freak out the local moms at Roselle Park in Pleasantville, NY after singing at the top of your lungs, “I’m going to take you higher.” Only for your son to take a mini tumble, skinning his knee a tad yet still finding the fortitude to bounce right back up before Dad asks him, “When you fall off the horse, what do you do?” And your son says, “Call Child Services.”
Being naughty sometimes means doing things in secret, because without any element of surprise, there ‘s no arousing, joyous lift, that makes the moment stick out from the same old situation. To achieve my goal of raising adventurous, risk taking kids who don’t flinch at the sight of a Jalapeno popper on Superbowl Sunday, I’ve been sneaking in doses of heat throughout all their meals for years like a Stay-At-Home Shaman Comedian. Since all my kids ate more than just Strawberries and boobie milk, which tastes like a regrettable, non-fate latte, I’d slip in red chili pepper flakes into my homemade penne vodka, knowing it would open them to a world of more tongue tantalizing, mind blowing, life enriching possibilities, by helping foster a sense of semi risking taking adventurism, versus me catering to their every request, so they’d become another entitled, enabled, fussy eater toddler twat like the rest.
You have to take baby steps, similar to me starting with Budweiser in high school, pale ale’s after college and double IPA’s in my forties for more fully loaded, concentrated blasts of a happiness in a glass. Now, every time I drink a pale ale again, I regret the decision immediately, because my taste buds have graduated to greener, more sumptuous pastures ever since. I have to bite my lip enough around a name calling, door slamming, f bomb hurling, always right wife, who threatens to kick me out of the house away from my 3 biggest fans in the universe, if I plan on following through with writing another book again. So, at this stage of my life, I’ve lost all desire to circumcise my happiness, which is denying myself the pleasure for the sake of trying to live out a calmer, less bombastic version of myself, because my opinions and passion for comedy gold generation are too aggressively edgy cheery for their tastes.
Now being naughty isn’t exclusive to cheating or being a sketchy, secretive fuck either. For example, one time, I won my son a big inflatable bat at Rock and Jump and as we left the building, my 4-year-old son thrusts the inflatable bat between his legs and says, “Daddy, check out my new penis. It’s bigger than Big John Stud.”
Naughty is spicing things up, which can be as simple as using the Shishito peppers I discovered at the last minute in the freezer , which my wife’s friend gave us to throw into the chili as an inspired, improvised, las minute thrown in, after I realized the regular Jalapeno peppers didn’t pack enough collective oomph to turn my kids on to the expansive, soul penetrating powers of good heat circulated Chili, enough to raise their eyebrows and blow their minds with explosive edge like when I actually explained what OPP means, before writing this piece. I explained both versions if you’re wondering.
I used Kosher turkey meat for my Naughty By Nature Chili and threw in continuous sprinklings of mortar pulverized black ground pepper because added spice adds more uplifting rocking edge to our days. Also, make sure you don’t plop in the red kidney beans until the last 15 minutes or else they’ll become deflated shells of themselves like Rebel Wilson’s tits.
Eating chili doesn’t have to remind you of your perpetually broke twenties or early forties now, if it’s made with spicy, spontaneous, over the top love, which increases your tolerance for risk and adventure like Christopher Columbus after his 1st VD shot.