WARNING! THIS POST CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE
Those who’ve followed this blog and especially those who have read my book (pre-release) will know that I am a most serious fellow who both never jokes and is somewhat adept at identifying abstract patterns. Often this works to my advantage.
Other times, it doesn’t.
It appears as if I am afflicted with a certain cognitive asymmetry. This is a very clever way of saying that I can be very not clever in certain regards, haut cuisine being one of the better examples. Indeed, The Nameless One, who is so named as she must not be named, once looked on in astonished horror as I attempted to make a delicious meal in which I mixed canned tuna and canned baked beans. At least, it was supposed to be a delicious meal, in the same spirit as the two people who bumped into one another and mixed chocolate with peanut butter. It proved to be a serendipitously delicious and accidental culinary discovery, or at least it was in the 1970’s commercials.
How was I to know baked beans and tuna would taste like crap and turn my guts into knots for an entire day? Tuna comes in cans. Baked beans come in cans. There was a pattern there; I just bloody knew it. Not all patterns are good ones, I suppose.
This morning, The Nameless One left me with idiot-proof instructions regarding a delicious and healthy meal that was to be made with the F@#!ing Vitamix superblender. This blender is so powerful that some 3rd world nations use it for tire recycling. With this monstrosity of unrestrained kitchen torque as my mystic culinary temple, and much like the mystic Egyptian Book of the Dead, The Nameless One left me her cryptic and timeless message on the kitchen blackboard: beets; carrots; dates; coconut; almonds. There. The mystery of the universe, solved. Whatever the bloody hell could ever go wrong with just five ingredients?
The first thing that a man must do–and when mustn’t a man do what a man must do?–when confronted with such a righteous quest is to pull out Excaliber or some other holy and +3 magic sword. Not having one lying around, I whipped out the next best thing: the 10″ Shun Classic chef’s knife / Bilbo Baggins’ special.
Having scrubbed and chopped both red AND orange beets, as two colours surely must be healthier than one, I then pondered the stupid coconut. The goal was to get the uber-fresh coconut milk from inside the coconut AND into the destroyer of vegetables that I so dearly love.
We couldn’t have canned coconut milk. No. That wouldn’t be cricket. So, having left my light sabre at the office and not wanting to provoke a 911 call for having attacked an unarmed coconut with a reciprocating saw, I decided to use our U.N. Human Rights Commission-Approved Guantanamo Bay Ethical Restraining Device, to keep the coconut from hurting itself while I punctured the bloody life out of it.
Well, wouldn’t you know it, the cognitive stress of solving the Mystery of the Sealed Coconut so taxed my poor asymmetric brain that I forgot all about the bloody dates. Might as well try to re-start the warp core without di-lithium crystals. Otherwise, all the ingredients went into the F@#!ing Vitamix. I followed the proper VM ignition sequence protocol, just like they teach at NASA.
The lid was sealed. Low power, minimum speed. Slowly increase the speed via the correct rotary dial control knob as the tire recycler chomped through the hard bits of beets and carrots and almonds like a pit bull going through prime rib. Just when you think you’ve reached the point of maximum vegetable violence (MVV), throw ‘er into high gear, and stand back as time and space warp under the awesome power of the F@#!ing Vitamix.
A bowl of rotten Pepto-friggin’-Bismol and cheap port would have tasted better than this Tinkerbell-pink healthy crap. I’m so glad I added the hairy-assed coconut milk; what a disaster it would have been had I forgotten that, too. I had a Campbell’s Chunky Soup moment upon first tasting it: maybe God is punishing me, so I should use a spoon, to get every friggin’ drop. “Jeez, all that’s missing is a touch of dates,” Nav said to himself. \
Who needs hot yoga or Pilates to strengthen my core, when I can just drink this crap and send my guts to the digestive olympics decathlon? No colon cancer for this culinary cowboy, no ma’am. There’s fibre, and then there’s Vitamix! Might make the U.S. Navy super gun R&D team green with envy, which is preferable to being internally pink and gurgling with my concoction.
Whatever reason God put me on this Earth, I can with great confidence say this one thing about it: it surely wasn’t to make food.