A humorous, optimistic blog about Food, Family, Friends and Faith

Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

Epic Fail

photo by Stephanie Weaver

One of my favorite dishes EVER is curried roasted cauliflower. I like it with grilled meat, with vegan dinners, or even by itself as a snack right when it comes out of the oven. My daughter LOVES it, as does my husband, who once said the famous words, “I’ll never eat cauliflower!” Now he eats roasted cauliflower and cauliflower soup. If I could only get him to eat beets…

Today I set out to make some masala dal (a soupy Indian dish made from legumes not unlike split peas, spices, chiles and herbs) and roasted cauliflower for dinner. I thought I might also make coconut rice, but the jury was still out.

So, armed with a decent menu and plenty of time, I prepped the dal and got it going in the crockpot. I cut the cauliflower into bite-sized pieces, tossed them with olive oil, curry powder and a pinch of kosher salt. I put them on a sheet pan sprayed with PAM and put them in a 350 oven to roast. About 15 minutes later, I flipped them so the crispy part of the cauliflower was now up and another part of the florets could get crispy. All was well.

I decided to run downstairs and switch out the laundry. Then I put the clothes away, decided to brush my teeth. Realized I was sleepy and lay down for a nap. Woke up an hour later to an unpleasant aroma.

I jumped out of bed, shouted a four-letter word, to which my daughter replied very concernedly, “What’s WRONG?” I ran down the hall, trailing the word “Cauliflower!” behind me. I turned off the oven, grabbed a kitchen towel and Pulled the smoking tray of charred vegetable matter out. With smoke billowing behind me, I raced to the deck, and dropped the sheet pan on our metal deck table. I could hear the cauliflower popping like corn. I imagined every last little bit of moisture in them had long since been baked out and now little black holes were forming in the interiors of the stalks. Here’s what remained.

Epic fail.

But fortune smiled on me. I went to the grocery store to buy another cauliflower and they were on sale for 99 cents each, so I got two. Now I have a spare in case it happens again.

Wish me luck!

Just for fun, here’s a video that my daughter posted, post burn.

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I should have sent the cauliflower here…

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Meat from Outer Space

OK, this is a riff on the Food theme. I was going to write a post about Anthony Bourdain and the fact that, if I weren’t fat and married with child, I would go after him, we would fall in love and travel the world making snarky, but oh-so-witty comments until we were both old. However, that post is pure fantasy, only half written and sort of ridiculous. In the meantime, I came across a little ditty that was too good not to share. This was shared by a college sophmore. It’s part of her psychology curriculum. Here it is in its entirety…

THEY’RE MADE OUT OF MEAT

by Terry Bisson

“They’re made out of meat.”

“Meat?”

“Meat. They’re made out of meat.”

“Meat?”

“There’s no doubt about it. We picked up several from different parts of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, and probed them all the way through. They’re completely meat.”

“That’s impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars?”

“They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don’t come from them. The signals come from machines.”

“So who made the machines? That’s who we want to contact.”

“They made the machines. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Meat made the machines.”

“That’s ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You’re asking me to believe in sentient meat.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. These creatures are the only sentient race in that sector and they’re made out of meat.”

“Maybe they’re like the orfolei. You know, a carbon-based intelligence that goes through a meat stage.”

“Nope. They’re born meat and they die meat. We studied them for several of their life spans, which didn’t take long. Do you have any idea what’s the life span of meat?”

“Spare me. Okay, maybe they’re only part meat. You know, like the weddilei. A meat head with an electron plasma brain inside.”

“Nope. We thought of that, since they do have meat heads, like the weddilei. But I told you, we probed them. They’re meat all the way through.”

“No brain?”

“Oh, there’s a brain all right. It’s just that the brain is made out of meat! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“So … what does the thinking?”

“You’re not understanding, are you? You’re refusing to deal with what I’m telling you. The brain does the thinking. The meat.”

“Thinking meat! You’re asking me to believe in thinking meat!”

“Yes, thinking meat! Conscious meat! Loving meat. Dreaming meat. The meat is the whole deal! Are you beginning to get the picture or do I have to start all over?”

“Omigod. You’re serious then. They’re made out of meat.”

“Thank you. Finally. Yes. They are indeed made out of meat. And they’ve been trying to get in touch with us for almost a hundred of their years.”

“Omigod. So what does this meat have in mind?”

“First it wants to talk to us. Then I imagine it wants to explore the Universe, contact other sentiences, swap ideas and information. The usual.”

“We’re supposed to talk to meat.”

“That’s the idea. That’s the message they’re sending out by radio. ‘Hello. Anyone out there. Anybody home.’ That sort of thing.”

“They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?”

“Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat.”

“I thought you just told me they used radio.”

“They do, but what do you think is on the radio? Meat sounds. You know how when you slap or flap meat, it makes a noise? They talk by flapping their meat at each other. They can even sing by squirting air through their meat.”

“Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you advise?”

“Officially or unofficially?”

“Both.”

“Officially, we are required to contact, welcome and log in any and all sentient races or multibeings in this quadrant of the Universe, without prejudice, fear or favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole thing.”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

“It seems harsh, but there is a limit. Do we really want to make contact with meat?”

“I agree one hundred percent. What’s there to say? ‘Hello, meat. How’s it going?’ But will this work? How many planets are we dealing with here?”

“Just one. They can travel to other planets in special meat containers, but they can’t live on them. And being meat, they can only travel through C space. Which limits them to the speed of light and makes the possibility of their ever making contact pretty slim. Infinitesimal, in fact.”

“So we just pretend there’s no one home in the Universe.”

“That’s it.”

“Cruel. But you said it yourself, who wants to meet meat? And the ones who have been aboard our vessels, the ones you probed? You’re sure they won’t remember?”

“They’ll be considered crackpots if they do. We went into their heads and smoothed out their meat so that we’re just a dream to them.”

“A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be meat’s dream.”

“And we marked the entire sector unoccupied.”

“Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any others? Anyone interesting on that side of the galaxy?”

“Yes, a rather shy but sweet hydrogen core cluster intelligence in a class nine star in G445 zone. Was in contact two galactic rotations ago, wants to be friendly again.”

“They always come around.”

“And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the Universe would be if one were all alone …”

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