Johnny America


This is Ex­act­ly What I Ate


I have some trou­ble ex­press­ing my most in­ner feel­ings. (I guess that I do as most peo­ple do.) But I have found in cook­ing a per­fect way to ex­press my­self. I have come up with a feel­ing-recipe match­ing sys­tem that al­lows me to let it all out.

See for your­self. This is ex­act­ly what I ate:

  1. When I found out that my fa­ther was sleep­ing with my wife (since last Christmas):
    Gar­licky fish stew Cor­fu Is­land Style
    2 ta­ble­spoons un­salt­ed butter
    3 ta­ble­spoons ex­tra-vir­gin olive oil
    2 medi­um onions, halved and thin­ly sliced
    8 to 10 gar­lic cloves, to taste, chopped
    6 to 8 medi­um waxy pota­toes, to taste, peeled and cut in­to large cubes
    Salt and fresh­ly-ground black pep­per to taste
    6 to 9 old 80s Play­boy is­sues (cut very thin)
    12 to 3 pounds grey mul­let or whit­ing, cleaned and gutted
    Juice of 1 lemon
    3 ta­ble­spoons chopped fresh flat-leaf pars­ley for garnish
    How to pre­pare it:
    Leave every­thing raw. It makes 4 to 6 servings.
  2. When I woke up the morn­ing af­ter I slept with my boss:
    Ja­maican jerk burg­ers with chipo­tle mayonnaise
    1 cup mayonnaise
    3 ta­ble­spoons or­ange juice
    1 ta­ble­spoon minced canned chipo­tle chilies
    Jerk sauce (Abun­dant­ly)
    1 bunch green onions, coarse­ly chopped (about 1 12 cups)
    1 ta­ble­spoon chopped fresh thyme
    1 small habañero chili or 2 medi­um jalapeño chilies
    1 gar­lic clove, peeled
    12 cup veg­etable oil
    3 ta­ble­spoons of are-you-out-of-your-fucking-mind-or-what
    12 cup soy sauce
    2 pounds ground beef
    6 sesame-seed ham­burg­er buns, toasted
    1 onion, thin­ly sliced
    3 toma­toes, sliced
    6 ro­maine let­tuce leaves
    How to pre­pare it:
    Mix all in­gre­di­ents in small bowl. Sea­son to taste with salt and pepper.
  3. That time when those twin sis­ters that I picked up at the Fat Duck (when I was still mar­ried) turned me down and de­cid­ed to make out in my bed (at the ho­tel) and leave me out:
    Clam and mus­sel stew with ‘Capoc­ol­lo’ and ‘Vesu­vius’ tomatoes
    2 ta­ble­spoons ex­tra-vir­gin olive oil
    2 large leeks, halved lengthwise
    1 ta­ble­spoon chopped garlic
    12 halves Vesu­vius Tomatoes
    13 cup dry white wine
    12 cup of self-pity
    24 lit­tle­neck clams, scrubbed
    2 cups bot­tled clam juice
    32 mus­sels, scrubbed, debearded
    6 ounces capoc­ol­lo (or coun­try ham)
    13 cup chopped fresh Ital­ian parsley
    2 cups fine­ly chopped onions
    12 large ripe plum toma­toes, halved lengthwise
    18 tea­spoon dried crushed red pepper
    How to pre­pare it:
    Pre­heat oven to 250°F. Add every­thing. Let it all die in the oven for two hours. Wor­ry first about find­ing all these ingredients.
  4. When my new fi­ancée, Chris­tine, who I had been dat­ing for two months (right af­ter I got the di­vorce) re­vealed that she was in­to bondage:
    Apri­cot leather
    6 fresh apri­cots (about 1 pound)
    34 cup sugar
    2 belts
    How to pre­pare it:
    Pre­heat oven to 200°F. Leave it… how about an hour? Eat di­rect­ly from the dish. No fork or spoons allowed.
  5. The day af­ter I got out of jail af­ter be­ing mis­tak­en­ly ac­cused (that means I was in­no­cent) of rap­ing the corpse of the for­mer city ma­jor’s 87 year old moth­er in the out­skirts of Amar­il­lo, Texas (I was 18, back then):
    Dried cher­ry but­ter­milk scones
    12 cup but­ter­milk plus 14 cup for brush­ing the scones
    1 large egg
    3 ta­ble­spoons light brown sugar
    1 tea­spoon vanilla
    14 cups cake flour (not self-rising)
    1 ta­ble­spoon dou­ble-act­ing bak­ing powder
    12 tea­spoon bak­ing soda
    12 tea­spoon salt
    3 to 10 chords of a Mandolina
    34 stick (6 ta­ble­spoons) cold un­salt­ed but­ter, cut in­to bits
    12 cup dried sour cher­ries (avail­able at spe­cial­ty foods shops)
    gran­u­lat­ed sug­ar for sprinkling
    How to pre­pare it:
    For 7 scones: In a bowl whisk gen­tly 12 cup of the but­ter­milk, the egg, the brown sug­ar, and the vanil­la un­til the re­sult­ing mix­ture is com­bined well… and buy a cook­ing book. This is a damned com­pli­cat­ed recipe.

Filed under Fiction on December 3rd, 2007

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