You think a suburban stiff doesn’t know how to party in the kitchen? That it’s all Lean Cuisines, Smart Choice, and Amy’s Light and Lean? No way, Jose Ole! When the workweek ends, the cooking party begins. I’m talking serious business.
First, I set the mood with my ’80s mix on my music app. Nothing tops Tina Turner’s “The Best” when you’re defrosting cauliflower rice in a lightly oiled Costco pan. Oh yeah, baby, you better believe I get my hips swingin’. I just feel the beat, feel the rhythm, and in no way – and I repeat, in no way – do I even look at the microwave.
Save that stuff for the time-crunched workweek.
Yep, it’s all pots, pans, mix-bowls and digital mixtapes from dusk till dawn on Sats and Suns. You may catch me wearing my go-to GOT apron that says “Dinner Is Coming” or my Spider-Man oven mitts, spreading a little pseudo-gossamer on those turkey-sausage stuffed bell peppers. I will even venture outside – can you believe it? The barbecue doesn’t just sit forlorn in a corner 364 days a year. I frequently use this puppy on these two sacred days, where that infernal machine, that abysmal appliance, that humming humdrum remains a boycotted symbol of the droll monotony of heated preservatives.
Why even use the microwave at all, you ask? Everyone can be guilty of sacrificing quality for convenience, and let’s face it – Monday through Friday is just one big zombie-thon where it’s all smoke and mirrors, a thin veneer of us thriving before collapsing the moment we close our front doors. Besides, the luscious meals I conjure on these most hallowed days are part-meal-prep for the week. So I’m raging with a purpose.
The party is just getting started when I pump up the ’80s jams. I even use my largest souvenir Montana mug as an echo chamber for my iPhone jukebox (not too loud – don’t wanna wake the kids, or neighbors before they start their symphony of morning mowers). You’ll find me sautéing, you’ll find me filletin’, prancing like a maestro. Sure, I’m no Bobby Flay or Rachel Ray, but in this sanctuary I sure do slay.
Give me veggies – I’ll steam, I’ll grill, I’ll bake. Give me proteins – I’ll char, I’ll caramelize, I’ll pulverize. The results of this exotic dance, this precious weekly pastime, are exquisite and delicious, if I do say so myself. The fam likes my cookin’ and so do I. And during these special times, I really do feel like a rebel, a nonconformist, an innovative creator. Yeah, that’s right – give two days, a kitchen, and a few cooking accessories for this suburban warrior, and I’ll rage, baby.
I’ll rage so hard against that microwave.
