To Hell With Takeout

This is an original piece written by me. If you like it, there's more at my gallery.
Enjoy!

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Whose idea was this anyway? My stupid mouth again I suppose. "Why don't you just relax and I'll cook you dinner tomorrow night." That's where I went wrong. I'm currently sitting in a pond of semi boiling water wishing that I wasn't so turned off by Emeril Lagasse's "essence" that makes everything taste so wonderful. I can't cook pasta and it's as simple as boiling water. Please, who am I kidding? I couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel.

You wanted Italian food and you asked a German to cook it for you. Bad idea. I can make you a knockwurst that would hit you so hard your mother could feel it, but pasta, no. I guess you took my fake Italian accent the wrong way when I asked "whadda can I a cooka for aju?" I like how the words "seafood fra diavlo" fell out of your face. Of course, silly me, I don't have the guts to say no to you, so of course I agreed and went to the fish market today.

The fish market was the easiest of my expeditions today; all I had to do was ask for the calamari, shrimp, clams, muscles, and scallops and I was all set to go. I ran those home, stuck them in the refrigerator which currently smells like low tide, and back down to the market I went for my produce.

There she was; sitting there all alone. She was the only non bruised tomato in the whole market. "Lady In Red" I named her. As I walked over to introduce her to my handy dandy little friend the produce plastic baggy, I could feel the eyes of Stable Mabel, a 700 year old dinosaur from the assisted living center a few blocks down, watching me. I'm quite suave really, I've made my way through many a club, but this was one tomato I wasn't taking home with me tonight. Stable started to scuffle fast down the aisle with her scrubby pants that were riding up her like a psychotic horse toward a burning stable and her walker with one of those stinky tree air fresheners on it because she stunk like piss and pine sol to high heaven. To the box of tomatoes she went, and snatched Lady before I could bat an eye.

"Stop & Shop should have more kiddo" she cackled at me as she scooted away.

Now, considering I had just speed walked 50 yards at a freaking tomato, making my self look like the biggest horses ass in the world, all with the exception of Dennis Rodman, I should have picked up the nearest prickly pear and hucked it at the back of her head. Instead of winding up in jail for killing a prehistoric life form and having some crazy museum on my case for the rest of my pasta cooking life, I quietly went about my business gathering other vegetables and herbs for my sauce. I even found a bigger, better tomato that I didn't have to go into combat or sprint for. You see, finding this stuff is easy; it's cooking it that's the problem.

A few tomatoes, a little can of tomato paste, some basil, garlic, all of that seafood I had gathered, some spices, salt, and a hint of pepper later, viola, we have pasta sauce. Yes indeed, the pasta sauce that had gathered so much heat and condensation in the pot because I didn't tilt the lid on it that almost knocked me over when I went to taste test. So yeah, I just knocked myself out, the garlic bread is in the oven, the sauce is simmering on the stove, and the pasta just boiled over, but that's alright because I swore so much I scared it all back into the pot, and you're coming in how long?

As soon as I was hit by the fact that I didn't have two hours on my hands anymore the doorbell rang. I opened it to see you bright eyed and smiling from ear to ear. The smile started on my face.

"Bonjourno and welcome to Restaurante Peterson, the most German Restaurante you'll ever eat at," I said as you giggled.

"Wow, something smells awesome in here. I can smell it from all the way down the hallway."

"Great, hope it tastes as good as it smells," I said, "Actually, that smell is probably the garlic bread burning in the oven, why don't you come on in?"

I thought to myself: "Oh boy, they can smell it from down the hallway. Mr. and Mrs. Trotchki are going to be down here ASAP when the scent reaches them. When I hear them scuffling down here I'll hide. Tim the Mooch should be down here any minute now too. He's one of those neighbors who's always looking to "borrow a cup of sugar" if you know what I mean."

"I brought the wine, would you like me to pour you some, Dear?" you asked as you took to my kitchen cabinet to find my wine bottle opener.

"No, I think I've got it. I won't leave any finger prints on the wine glasses considering I just steam burned them all off," I said with a chuckle. "Why don't you grab a seat?"

The candles were lit, I folded the napkins like those fancy restaurants do with the help of a Google search, and everything else, including that dimmer switch for the lights I installed minus an electrician was perfect. You made me a little bit tense sitting at the table smiling away considering that my pasta may wind up being "paste"a, after my boiling incident. And finally, with the twirl of a fork and a lift and pour of a ladle, dinner was served.

"Wow."

The only thought that was running through my mind after that outburst was "Oh ****, you hate it."

"This is awesome. You're so incredible," you said with half a mouthful. Now I knew you were the table manner Nazi and that you'd never talk with your mouth full, but damn, you made it sound like the Iron Chef was sitting behind me. You smiled and my heart skipped a beat. All of my thoughts about Stable Mabel stealing my tomato, my speed walking through the market, my burns, and my pasta that boiled over, had all escaped my mind. Just to see you smile was enough for me. Just to know that you were going to be in my arms for the night would have possessed me to do it all over again. It would also posses me to go find some floss and an after dinner mint in the depths of my bathroom before cuddling up with you on the couch.

Well, as they say in Italy, or somewhere at least: Bon Appetite!