One of the toughest transitions for me in becoming a bachelor involved navigating my way around a kitchen. Certainly I could always find my way to the refrigerator to get myself a nice cold Dr Pepper. But outside of hot dogs and Kraft Dinner (which are awesome together – as in, chop up the hot dogs and mix them into the Kraft Dinner) I am pretty much useless in the kitchen.
I do not live on an unlimited income, sadly. Therefore, dinner out every night was not an option. Further to that, being single again, should I ever hope to find myself in a relationship with my very own cross between Ginger Rogers and Audrey Hepburn, a life of Big Mac’s and Papa Burgers wasn’t going to help. It’s hard to go bowling when you can’t fit out the door of your apartment, or so I’ve heard.
There is one other factor in the mix. I am a Firefighter. If there is one universal fear amongst all Firefighters, I suspect it would be this… having the Fire Department show up at your house because you burned it down! As if my culinary skills weren’t already an issue for me, now I have the added pressure of not setting fire to my apartment!
When I first moved into my place, I lived like a true bachelor. My grocery list looked something like this…
Bread
Milk
Cheese
Kraft Dinner
Chunky Soup
Peanut Butter
Dr Pepper
I was clueless. I was afraid. I also had one pot and nothing to stir it with! This true blue bachelor phase lasted for a while before I grew tired of Kraft Dinner. I mean, really, choosing between White Cheddar KD and Regular Cheddar KD is not exactly like looking over the menu at Red Lobster!
As the days and weeks passed, my confidence began to grow. I started by adding a few much needed supplies to my kitchen. A couple pots, a frying pan, wooden spoons (for the first time in my life I had a wooden spoon that mom wasn’t going to break over my butt!!!) a few measuring cups, and a wicked cool set of stainless steel knives later, I figured I was good to go. I was ready to become a masterful culinary genius.
My grocery list improved over time too. I began to add things like chicken, pork chops and fresh vegetables (my parents would never believe it, but I’m sure they’d be proud). I would spend time cutting and chopping and slicing and dicing and all the while having no sweet clue what I was doing! A dash of onion salt here, a pinch of chopped garlic there, a squeeze of lemon juice and a glaze of maple and I was ready for my chef’s hat and apron.
I have no recipes. I never have. I just make it up as I go along. I figure, worst case scenario, since I’m the only one eating, I’m the only one that suffers, so experiment away. I have often said that if you don’t know what you’re doing… at least look the part! So I stand in my kitchen, perched over my cutting board, a dish towel draped over my shoulder for effect, masterfully handling my fancy knives as fencer would handle a sword.
Yes, I could fool a great many people with my ability to play the part. If one didn’t know any better, they might actually be convinced that I know what I’m doing. In your mind you’re picturing me working away at creating a delectable assortment of the finest cuisine. It’s the image of the towel over my shoulder that really does it for you isn’t it? Yeah, I thought so. That’s why I do it! Yes, it’s quite the show… and for the grand finale… I blow up the rice!!!
Monday night I was working on one of my masterpieces. I had a steak cooking that had been marinating since Sunday, I had the peppers, mushrooms and broccoli chopped and soaking in lemon juice ready to be tossed into the mix. The vegetables were to be served on a bed of rice. Keep in mind, I’m still a bachelor, so I had a package of Uncle Ben’s Express Rice that you nuke for 2 minutes in the microwave.
As all the other elements were finishing up, I hurriedly tossed the rice into the microwave to cook and set the table to dine (I may be a bachelor, but I still eat at the table – most of the time). As I was placing the cutlery I heard a noise that seemed a little out of place. A bit of a whistle. I thought nothing of it. Slowly, however, the whistle turned more to a high pitched scream. This sound was a little more alarming. I had visions of fire and smoke detectors and my pager going off and my fire department responding. Something in my kitchen was going wrong… very wrong!
Before the frightening and chaotic scenario finished playing out in my mind… a gun shot! I clutched my chest… no blood. I looked left, l looked right. A quick scan of the room found no intruders and nothing out of place. I felt no pain. I couldn’t possibly be wounded, or wait, could I be in shock? I paused for a moment, breathed in deeply, then it hit me. I know what happened.
When you make Uncle Ben’s Express Rice, before you start the microwave you must tear open a corner of the bag. This was a detail that, in my haste, I may have overlooked. As a result, as the temperature increased in the package and insufficient ventilation was available as a result of my oversight, the package exploded.
Illusions of grandeur quickly left my mind. I am not Gordon Ramsey, I am not Jamie Oliver, I am not Emeril. No friends, I am still but a simple bachelor, uneducated in the ways of the kitchen, and as a result… I blew up the rice!