Tag Archives: Humor

Nestled. Stacked. Mashed. Cosplay.

Cooking, Creative non-fiction, Humor, Life and Other Existential Problems, Writing, ,

Food-in-Food Ad Nauseam

I just made several dozen cookies using cookie butter, essentially folding finely ground cookies into other cookies. This was after I contemplated making Oreo-stuffed chocolate chip cookies.

Maybe it’s the season. Maybe it’s my brain. Most likely, it’s the eggnog that leads me to share these thoughts.

Once upon a time, food had a certain dignity. I don’t mean to romanticize the past – the food wasn’t necessarily good, but everything sort of stayed in its lane, just as God and Ina Garten intended. Pies and cakes didn’t go seeking thrills inside one another’s layers. A turkey wasn’t trying to form some sort of poultry Voltron with a duck and a chicken. And you could enjoy a donut without fearing it would attempt a surprise flank maneuver on the croissants.

(We’re just going to take a moment to pour one out for the troubling put-everything-in Jell-O era, okay?)

Image via Molded Memories (moldedmemories.food.blog)

Do yourself a favor and do not look up photos of the final product.

ANYHOO. BeJell-Oed fish aside, these were orderly days. Predictable.

Naturally, this didn’t last, because America, God bless her goofy heart, just had to ask things like, “What if this were two foods?” and “What if this were three foods wearing a trench coat?”

And we just had to answer, “Let’s find out!” We even had the temerity to be enthusiastic about it.

Long story short, everything started declining.

It’s not total collapse. Not yet, at least. Decline takes time. Decline is a gentle slope you slide down while clutching a cocktail weenie.

First came the turducken. Fine. Well, not fine. Terrible. But it was a novelty, a kitschy one-off we could pretend was harmless.

Along barreled the cronut, then entered the piecaken, and at that point the Universe quietly ducked out for cigarettes.

Of course, the Tofurkey strutted in trying to claim creative credit for all these food mashups. Pretty bold for a plant impersonating meat with more commitment than half the actors on the WB in its heyday.

Now, for those preparing to storm the comment section of this VERY SERIOUS AND HIGHLY ACADEMIC TREATISE to inform me I “misunderstand food” and to quote from the Book of You Got Chocolate in my Peanut Butter, I say unto you: NAY. NAY, ESTEEMED SCHOLAR. I am not speaking of such blessed unions

I speak of “Your chefs were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should.” I speak of culinary unions baroque and unsound, where a food is nestled inside another food, occasionally mashed with a third, and often pretending to be a fourth. I speak of the insult added to injury via portmanteau.

You may ask, “What ho, Malvolio?”

Which is a weird question right now. Why are you asking that?

A better question is, “What comes next?”

I (or maybe it’s the eggnog) have taken the liberty of imagining exactly that. (Oh, no.) I’m not saying these will happen, and I’m not saying they should.

Except they will.

And still, they definitely should not.

So, what horrors await?

A pork tenderloin tucked coyly into a soufflé, resulting in the Souffloin? The Brûléurger, a burger with a cracked sugar crust, because separating dinner and dessert is a real time waster?

There is, I fear, a genuine possibility of a Sushperd’s Pie, sushi nestled beneath mashed potatoes. This is the sort of thing you serve only to your nemesis.

Our pastries may develop pork issues (Baklavacon), and our Fritos may develop pastry issues (Fritocotta).

Let us not pretend we are prepared for the arrival of the Chocochimachattorellacci (Chocolate + Chimichanga + Cacciatore + Cappellacci).

Any faith in humanity you’ve been clinging to may at this point be folly.

Now, this is the part of the essay where I write some sort of takeaway. (Pun not intended, unless you laughed, in which case pun intended).

Ahem.

This is the part of the essay where I make it about me.

Look, maybe culinary monstrosities are born of loneliness and/or an impulse to unnecessarily break something, hot glue it back together, and call it innovation.

Maybe we keep stuffing food inside food because stuffing feelings inside feelings is harder and definitely not something to bring to an office potluck.

Or maybe some influencer is issuing gastrointestinal dares to shoppers as they enter the grocery store. I don’t know. Theories abound.

What is certain is that someone, somewhere, is going to read my jokes and think, “Bisquisketbabka? Challenge accepted.” And suddenly I’ll be forced to eat some sort of bisque in a brisket in a babka, and it’ll be my own damned fault.

But there’s still hope for you, dear reader.

If someone produces a Quesoquichewich, or a Mortarollini, or a Bouillabiscuitryanibatten, rise from your chair, walk to the door, and leave without looking back.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my Salisbury Schn’moruflakanaki (Schnitzel + S’mores + Soufflé + Saganaki) is calling.

No, wait. That’s the eggnog.

I’ve named it Malvolio.

A Brief, Inadvisable Guide to Hosting Thanksgiving

Cooking, Creative non-fiction, Humor, Life and Other Existential Problems, , , , , , ,

You too can be set up for the kind of failure that builds character.

A simple illustrated Thanksgiving graphic with an orange border. The center shows the title "A Brief, Inadvisable Guide to Hosting Thanksgiving" in burgundy text. Below the title is a cartoon-style roasted turkey on a platter with oranges and leafy greens. The byline "by Jackie Pick" appears in the bottom right.

Thanksgiving is, as far as I can tell, a commemorative feast built on the American impulse to confidently do too much and go too far. Also, carbohydrates.

This is the holiday of American Overreach, and if you are hosting, you’ll need to be prepared.

Hosting is not for the faint of heart. Or faint of stomach.

So, if you are like me, a person whose baseline is “Faint of Everything,” here is an extremely helpful and entirely reliable guide to hosting.

1. BEGIN WITH A PLAN.

Start weeks before Thanksgiving (or the morning of, you sexy daredevil) by writing a list with times and tasks. Something like:

  • 7:45 a.m.: Preheat oven
  • 7:46 a.m.: Find salad spinner and measuring cups.
  • 7:49 a.m.: Clean entire house (get family to help).

Heck, write two lists, because all you are doing now is lying to yourself. Your oven will politely opt out, and your family will help by saying “just tell me what you need me to do,” as if tumbleweeds aren’t currently swooshing across the living room.

You must lie to yourself more effectively. Color-code your list. Add exclamation points for motivation. Put on your apron with foolhardy optimism.

Then watch in real time as your plan disintegrates.

Still, this color-coded, exclamation-point-riddled, absurdly unrealistic plan is essential because its collapse will teach you about the limits of narrative control.

Speaking of limits, this is a good time to mention the turkey. In short, you will spend the day being held hostage by a Butterball.

A quick primer on turkeys: The turkey is a large, ungainly bird that in life was known for (1) its ability to freak out in any direction and (2) its ability to treat flying as an opportunity to fail. This is why Americans choose them for feasts: we like an underdog, especially when the opponent is gravity.

The bird should be roughly the size of an ottoman. Experts claim it needs three to five days to thaw, which is a lie. Even in death, turkeys have excellent survival instincts and will, if given a chance, remain frozen in the center until the heat death of the universe.

Which is to say, if you haven’t started defrosting your turkey by Thanksgiving morning, you are omg-someone-check-if-the-grocery-store-is-open-today screwed.

At this point, it is wisest to delegate all turkey-related tasks to someone more responsible than you.

2. MAKE AN IMPOSSIBLE AMOUNT OF FOOD.

The turkey is delegated. Enjoy that moment of liberation, for in accordance with Thanksgiving Law, you must cook enough other dishes to provision a wagon train. Think appetizers, side dishes, side-side dishes, and multiple potato varieties (mashed, sweet, roasted, and whatever the hell happened in that fourth pan).

Make desserts. Plural. Twelve is my usual number. I’m not entirely sure why I do this; no one has ever said, “We just consumed 6,000 calories. You know what we need? Twelve different sweet things.”

Butter is your verb of the day. Butter the turkey. Butter under the skin. Butter the cavity. Butter the pans. Butter the potatoes. Butter the rolls. Butter the twelve desserts. Butter the tumbleweeds. Butter yourself. It’s a holiday.

3. GREET YOUR GUESTS LIKE THIS HAS BEEN GOING WELL.

Your guests are lovely. They will arrive smiling, carrying something delicious and structurally sound. They will ask how they can help. They will pretend not to notice you frantically rearranging furniture. They don’t need to know you’re trying to stack the side table over the living room tumbleweeds.

Even if they don’t like you, trust that they’re at least committed to the bit.

4. EXPECT SEVERAL SOMETHINGS WILL GO WRONG.

Things will be great, then you will burn something, forget something, drop something, and your apron will catch on a drawer pull and take you down like you’re the dramatic midpoint of a Ken Burns documentary. At the same time, at least one dish will appear to be boiling despite containing no liquid whatsoever.

You will sweat gravy.

It is now time to commence the traditional Host’s Panic: Excuse yourself to breathe dramatically in the bathroom. Tell your guests you are checking on the gravy. Your guests may wonder if (and why) you have gravy in the bathroom, or if you merely employed a horrible euphemism.

5. WATCH IT ALL COME TOGETHER ANYWAY.

And then, because this is how stories work, the whole mess settles. People talk and laugh and eat because they are polite and kind and hungry, and also because you put out enough food to feed a European principality.

The whole day is somehow almost insultingly lovely. You have improbably created ridiculous abundance in this luminous act of gathering.

And you’ll look around and think, “Oh. This is nice. I should do this again next year.”

For you, a blessing:

May your turkey behave, your desserts multiply beyond reason, your plans unravel gracefully, your potatoes be fluffy, your baster stay findable, and your gratitude arrive when you need it. May you be surrounded by people who put up with your nonsense, and may someone else do the dishes.

Happy Thanksgiving. And remember: too much is just enough.

You Must Be Fun at Parties

Creative non-fiction, Humor, Inspiration, Life and Other Existential Problems, Under 750, , , , ,

Notes from the Coat Closet

“You must be fun at parties” is usually shorthand for “you seem like someone who would scold a balloon, and I don’t enjoy you.” For me, it’s an oddly specific field note.

It’s been seven hours and fifteen decades since I last socialized with any regularity.

I once was, if not the life of the party, the CPR dummy of it: dragged out, asked if I’m okay, inflated briefly, then shoved back in a suitcase until needed again.

Socializing is a muscle, and mine is atrophied because I’ve been on the couch since 2010. Still, I now RSVP to invites aspirationally. I picture Q-and-As sparkling, snacks excellent, and my hair behaving.

In reality, I’m the guest eating chips and dip in a coat closet.

Walk through an event with me. Or near me. Or, better yet, around me:

I prep, of course.

Step one: test-drive some jokes. I am a dancing bear. Dancing bears must dance.

Step two: polish up an elevator pitch about my latest project, which could be the Not-Great American Novel, a nervous breakdown, or cupcakes.

Step three: get dressed (multiple times). Telling me the dress code is casual isn’t helping. Neither is tacking on a word to it. Business casual? You might as well say formal casual, tractor casual, or funeral casual. I choose an outfit fit for the launch of a 1974 space capsule.

My husband is thoroughly briefed: if my grin goes stiff or I start scanning for trap doors, swoop in. When we arrive at the event, he beelines toward a group earnestly debating the finer points of mulch. I, on the other hand, walk into a coat rack while I scan for friendly faces.

There are fifteen people gathered in polite clusters. Ten hold drinks. Four are deep in conversation. One considers the cheese platter.

Conversation zigzags like it has somewhere to be and no idea how to get there. Everyone is nodding, so I nod too. I can’t be the only weirdo not co-signing. Yes, the municipal composting program is complicated. Yes, Pilates is the only thing keeping Marcy sane. Yes, there’s an alarming shortage of teaspoons. I may have agreed to join a militia. I’m uncertain because I am now also considering the cheese platter, mesmerized by a sexy Kaukauna.

It is during these fun, funny, and utterly disjointed conversations the true language of the night is spoken: couples’ signals. A raised eyebrow means rescue me. A discreet wrist tap is don’t tell that story. A quick mime of wiping teeth translates to spinach. A pointed look says oh no, Backsplash Guy is here. It’s a whole conversation under the conversation. I love it.

Then it happens. No one talks for seven full seconds.

BEHOLD! I am the Once and Future Resuscitation Jackie! I’VE GOT THIS!

I mine for stories, giggle at punchlines, toss out “interesting, tell me more” like so many Mardi Gras beads. Folks oblige and share things about how they feel about their HOA (a cabal!), Trader Joe’s (went for the Steamed Pork & Ginger Soup Dumplings, almost got killed in the parking lot!), and one neighbor who lost a finger to a salad spinner (Legend!). It’s great.

If I ask too many questions, I’ll be less talk show and more Law and Order: Social Victims Unit. No one wants to feel like they’re about to be cuffed and read their rights in front of the canapés. So, I watch for any quick eyerolls that say, Help, I’m trapped with this sentient game of 20 Questions wearing a zip-front A-line number.

Meanwhile, my thrives-at-parties husband floats by like a genial sea creature to refresh his drink. I blink in Morse code that I’m running out of questions about bird bath maintenance. I think he’s going to tap in! He does not.

So I persist, though out of steam.

Midway through a discussion about vacation rentals, my strapless bra, believing it was meant for greater things, heads south with dreams of becoming a belt. I do what anyone would do: try to harness it by squeezing my arms to my side, smile like nothing’s wrong, finish my drink, and plot my escape.

Bra somewhere around my thighs, I waddle into the coat closet for an adjustment and some crackers and dip I’ve strategically placed in my pockets for just such an emergency.

Socializing remains an extreme sport for which I am wildly unfit. Will I do it again? Absolutely. Bring on the Kaukauna.