Get Out of the Kitchen!

My wife, she can't cook. I don't think meatloaf should glow in the dark. ~Rodney Dangerfield

My father loved to cook. It was one of his passions. He wasn't very good at it, unfortunately for us, but he loved it, just the same. He cooked one thing really well - deep fried chicken. The best I've ever had.

The problem with preparing deep fried chicken is you have to use a lot of flour, so it tends to be a bit messy. When you couple that with a whole lot of beer (for the mouth), the mess is massive. He always thought he was doing my mother a favor because dinner would be ready when she got home.

The problem with that theory was that he never cleaned up afterward, so she would not only come home to a great dinner, but also a great mess! There was usually flour and grease everywhere! I'm talking about the sinks, the counter tops, the floor and (I'm not joking) the ceiling. I know!

My mother would always be heard angrily muttering things about him while cleaning up the mess. I know what you're thinking; why didn't we pitch in and help? Like most kids, we kept our distance from any type of cleaning. We only helped if we had to. It was much more fun to play outside.

My sister got recruited a lot for cleaning up. We all had to take turns doing the dishes, but that's about it. Every now and then my mother would make us clean our room and if she really wanted to get to us, like when we pulled a Ferris Beuller and faked illness, she would make us clean our closet. Nobody! Not the dreaded closet! It would take the entire day to get it done and by that time we wished we had gone to school. I digress.

There were other dishes for which my father was famous. He made the world's largest and heaviest pancakes. I mean huge! They would cover the entire plate. They were delicious, but holy cow, they filled us up like that guy who always wins the hot dog eating contest. Like Adam Richman in a food challenge.

The worst part was we had to eat how many he decided to cook. Ugh. The game was to finish one before he could plop another one on your plate. We were afraid of the guy so we always create an exit strategy that didn't put us on the business end of his belt.

Other times, he would cook fried eggs which he would serve up along with bread we toasted. The problem with these eggs was that he cooked them in about six inches of shortening. They were more like deep fried eggs. Should fried eggs have a crust? These did, and they were gross.

My younger brother and I created a little song to sing very quietly while he was cooking breakfast; "Barfo bits, barfo bits, having fun with barfo bits". We thought it was funny and it was our way of dealing with having to eat this junk.

I know we should have been grateful to simplify have food, but you don't think that way when you're a kid. And lastly, if we had an upset stomach he would cook what he called "Eggs Vienna". So gross. He would place a slice of toast at the bottom of a small bowl, then add the runniest, undercooked eggs ever and then the finishing touch, warm milk. It was so disgusting, we learned to keep our mouths shut if we didn't feel well.

In the end, he had only the one winning dish. The deep fried chicken. Too bad we couldn't have that for breakfast.

See you tomorrow.

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