I’m ticked.
Apparently, I missed out on a grand tradition at my college.
The Shoe Tree fell over.
Crap. That ticks me off. I had no idea that it even existed. I never actually lived on that campus, transferring from the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point when I was a sophomore to live with Esteban in town. And now it’s gone. And my shoes were never there.
Oh. The professor has the link to this page now. (Hi Tom!) And I haven’t even touched the particularly puerile things. I probably should have though. Gah. That uterus entry is going to haunt me for the rest of my life. I just know it.
Oh. Uncle Bob has challenged me to a bet. If Bill is the Mole (as IF!!!), I must write two diary entries for him, in his writing style. If Heather is the Mole, (and she is SO Moley that her first name ought to be ‘Holy’) he will write two diary entries for me, in my writing style. Whatever that is. I took his bet and said, ‘Bring it, Bitch!’ Mostly because I’ve been waiting for like two years to say that to someone.
Yeah. I’m thinking I’m going to be writing his entries for him too.
Fuck.
(Figured I should practice swearing now.)
Esteban cooked again last night.
I must preface this story with a disclaimer: Esteban actually does know how to cook. His hamburgers are exquisite. He’s much better at making chicken breasts and rice than I am. He makes the best spaghetti sauce I’ve ever tasted in my life. He makes incredible scrambled eggs. You might think “What? Scrambled eggs?! I’ve been making scrambled eggs since I was eleven!” but seriously, there must be a trick to it because his eggs come out so light and fluffy and delicious and perfectly done with nary even a trace of that egg snot yucky stuff that triggers my involuntary gag reflex. So it’s not that he can’t cook. He can.
Yesterday morning, I called Esteban before he left work and asked him to take some chicken breasts out of the freezer to thaw so that we could grill them for dinner. Then at the end of the day, I took a late lunch and did my grocery shopping. By that time, I was really tired and cranky and didn’t want to waste an hour steaming potatoes and standing by the grill because it was something like 98 degrees outside so I got some stuff from the deli and figured that we’d grill the next night. As I was driving out of the grocery store at 5:10 pm (normally the time I’d be leaving work), my cell phone rang.
It was Esteban.
“Are you coming right home?”
“Of course I am.”
“Good. Because dinner’s all ready.”
I was confused. “You grilled the chicken?”
“I made dinner.”
“What did you make?”
“I made dinner.”
That was ominous. “What did you make?”
He was getting iritated, mostly because he knows that I’m a control freak about food preparation and have a flutter tummy about certain combinations. Like, if it’s sketchy, I can’t eat it. I’m a horrible wifely thing that way. It’s mostly because I wasn’t allowed to be a picky little snit when I was a child, so I’m making up for it now.
“I made….I made chicken parmesan.”
“Oh. Ok. I’ll be home in ten.”
I hung up my phone and did the math in my head. We didn’t have any pre-made chicken parmesan dinners. He would have had to make that from scratch. We had chicken breasts. We did have various cheeses. We had pasta as well as various bottled sauces. So it was possible.
I guess.
I drove home with much curiosity. He met me outside to help carry in the groceries. When I walked in the door, I was met with a familiar smell. A strangely hot and yet familiar smell.
It reminded me of’. Lunch boxes.
He helped me put away the groceries and then he removed two very orange pans from the oven where they were keeping warm.
‘I looked up recipes on the internet and everything.’ He said, concernedly. ‘But I had to substitute some stuff.’
‘What stuff?’ I said, still trying to place the lunch box smell.
‘We didn’t have bread crumbs.’
‘What did you use instead?’
‘Doritos.’
Ding Ding, Ladies and Gentlemen, I think we have a winner.
‘Why didn’t you just make bread crumbs from one of the two loaves of bread we had?’
‘We had bread?’
‘In the frig.’
‘Well, honestly, it didn’t occur to me to MAKE the bread crumbs. ‘
‘I’m sure it will be fine, honey.’
My flutter tummy was kicking into overdrive, so I talked it back off its proverbial ledge. Come on, it won’t be that bad. It’s just Doritos. BAKED Doritos at that. My flutter tummy huffed and pouted, standing in the corner, dreaming about lovely grilled chicken breast and steamed new potatoes.
It wasn’t that bad. Of course, after last time, I would have eaten it if it were dog food. The Doritos were not very crushed because he couldn’t find the pitcher part of the blender, but it was very tasty. I didn’t let him put the red sauce over the chicken though. That would have put me right over the edge.
Even so, he wisely didn’t tell me about everything he put in it, including two eggs or the fact that the marinade was BLACK, until after I had eaten most of it. The thought of a black eggy marinade would have sent me into a dead faint.
Also, to Esteban’s credit, the spaghetti was done perfectly and the red sauce was divine. It wasn’t a total wash. While eating, I tried to maintain a chipper and supportive demeanor by asking questions.
‘So, which cheese did you use?’
He looked at me blankly. ‘Cheese?’
‘You said it was Chicken Parmesan, right?’
‘Oh, I guess that would have made sense then. To put cheese in a dish called Chicken Parmesan. It didn’t even occur to me.’
‘That’s ok, honey. The Doritos are cheesy.’
‘But these are Nacho Doritos.’
‘I’d bet that it would be better with Cool Ranch.’
‘I don’t know. I think maybe you shouldn’t use Doritos. I guess it’s not really Chicken Parmesan.’
‘Well, it’s not BAD or anything. It’s fine. It’s just something else, that’s all. Maybe Chicken Nachotaliano? Or Chicken Italiacho? Eat all you want, we’ll make more.’
‘Um, no we won’t.’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘I’m sorry, baby. This sucks.’
‘No, it’s good. It’s GOOD! See!? Yum! If you sort of scrape the top part of the Doritos and eat the part that’s sort of soggy, that’s better.’
Thank god we didn’t have Cheetos in the house. The things you do for love. Gah.
I called Esteban at work this morning to tell him that I wanted to write about Dorito Chicken Parmesanless. He then sent me the recipe.
In case, you know, anyone wanted to make it.
For the first time ever on this page, straight from Esteban’s keyboard:
—–Original Message—–
From: Esteban
Sent: Thursday, August 01, 2002 3:47 PM
To: Weetabix
Subject: Recipe
1/2 bag of Baked Doritos–Nacho Cheese flavor
6 Boneless and Skinless Chicken Breasts
1 Teaspoon Minced Garlic
1/2 Teaspoon of chopped Oregano in oil
1/2 Cup Skim Milk
Worchestshire sauce
Soy Sauce
Salt
Pepper
Granulated Toasted Garlic
Granulated Toasted Onion
2 Jumbo Eggs
Break the two eggs into a bowl. Add several liberal shakes of Worstershire sauce. Contemplate the bowl for a minute. Add about two tablespoons of soy sauce. Add minced garlic, granulated garlic, granulated toasted onion. Add Oregano. Mix with a fork until the resulting mix is frothy. Sniff the mixture. Decide that it’s a bit discerning that the resulting goo is black. Add salt and pepper, mix again. Sniff again and decide that all will be well after it’s baked.
Crush the Doritos with your hands, getting as much orange crap on your hands as possible. When the Doritos are reasonably small, dip the chicken breasts in the mixture and then into the Doritos, coating the breast liberally with Dorito crumbs. Lay the finished breast into a glass casserole dish that you have greased with olive oil. You will no doubt have to try to grease it with one hand, as you didn’t think to do this earlier. Repeat until all breasts are in a casserole dish. You will have to grease another casserole with one hand, as one casserole dish isn’t enough.
Next decide that you cant waste the remaining Doritos and pour the reminder of them into the casserole dishes. Contemplate the black batter again. Decide that shouldn’t be wasted either and pour it into the casserole dishes. Decide that it would have been better to do that BEFORE the Doritos.
Cook at 375 degrees for 30 minutes. Serve with pasta and spaghetti sauce.
How can you not just fall in love with him? I’m the luckiest girl in the world, non?
