Thursday, September 21, 2017

Cooking for...None?!

I miss cooking for starving, ravenous boys.  I'm talkin' about high school boys that wake up hungry, eat potatoes, bacon, biscuits for breakfast and chug a gallon jug of milk as they try to hide behind the refrigerator door.  The very same lads have lunch at school and upon return home, make a B-line for the kitchen, dropping books, gym bags and jackets along the way, following their noses to the stove top, lifting a few pot lids to inspect the evenings offerings.  The first question is always the same for every guy,
"When's dinner ready, I'm STARVING!!" The high school exchange students were more tactful in their inquiries,
"Um, Mistah Queen, what time is dinn-ah?"  6:00, same as always, Nghia or Luis or Ching-shi.

Music to my ears. Young men will and do eat anything, so, you're guaranteed success and a feeling of accomplishment.  There are no picky eaters, no allergies or sensitivities, no scraps in the garbage.  It's clean and they'll do dishes when you ask them.  But, when they leave, it's like you've been down-sized at work or retired.  You've gone from boots on the ground to management.  Player to coach.

Damn!

Hey, I think to myself, I can still cook for a crowd.  Come on, somebody come over, text some kids to invade and raise hell. I need a party in the basement requiring late night appetizers.

Something...

Siobhan awoke Monday morning for her second week of 5th grade.
"Baby, what would you like for breakfast, eggs and bacon?  An omelette? Bagel with cream cheese or a chicken-cheese quesadilla?"

"Daddy, I'm not very hungry.  I have to take my shower and do my hair.  Thanks."
Risa, our Japanese community college, female student hasn't started classes yet, so, she is asleep till noon.  There I stood like a batter in the box taking practice swings, only no pitcher.  Actually, no game.  Shoved my cast iron pan to the back burner in disgust and disbelief.  This is how it ends, I thought, old cooks don't die, they just don't have anymore customers.  They shop, do their mis en place, take inventory, plan seasonal adjustments and events, but, lack a clientele.  They get diabetes, the gout and burst like an over-ripe melon in August.  Wait a second...

Rhonda!

My next door neighbor with her MS, cigarettes, two electric chairs and prying personal questions, who loves to trim my shrubbery without asking, who smoke bombs my gopher holes so they don't migrate to her yard, she always appreciates a plate when her boyfriend is away for the week.

(text message): Hey, I'm coming over with some breakfast.  You awake?  I'll put it outside the sliding glass door.

(Rhonda reply): I'm awake, come in and set it on the kitchen counter.

I dish up a Tillamook cheddar omelette with mushrooms, bacon and green onions.  A quick wrap with plastic and out the back door I go.  She's slid the door open ahead of me as I approached her back yard.

"Dennis, just put it by the microwave.  Whadja make anyways?"
Oh, nothing special, I tell her as I tip the plate towards her.  The omelette is shining with a garnish of salsa and sour cream on top.

"Oh, DEN-iss, that's beautiful.  And HUGE!  How I'm gonna eat all that?"
"One bite at a time," I reply, "and use a napkin," winking at her.
"Thank you, Dennis."

"No Rhonda, thank YOU for being here, my one and best customer this morning."


Take care, God bless and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends, 
the Best Things in Life Aren't Things!"

chefbq