Sometimes I have this overwhelming urge to update my Facebook status with "I'm fucking Matt Damon." ...it's just never not funny.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Tater Tot Hot Dish
I have to admit, I'm a little bit of a food snob. ...I judge everything else, why the hell would I not judge food, too? To acquire the knowledge and wherewithal to become a foodie is a lot of work, especially for one from humble beginnings like myself. True, I grew up on a farm...but we produced subsidy crops like corn and soybeans -- not food that was actually edible. Yeah, I realize you can eat corn and soybeans, but not what we grew (which goes to a larger issue addressed in documentaries such as King Corn, Food Inc., etc. and I'm gonna defer to those and get off this train).
So coming from a farm that does not produce edible food does not help one become a gourmet. And growing up in the 1980s didn't help. As a child, I had a diet that consisted primarily of fruit roll-ups, hostess products in a variety of forms, (I was an especially big fan of the pink marshmallow covered snowballs.) and bologna on white bread...with whole milk. But of course the staple of a proper Midwestern diet is the casserole. I'm not entirely certain of the origin of the casserole, but I do know I have experienced it in almost every variety. I suppose during the Great Depression, mixing half a leftover can of tuna with noodles and cream of mushroom soup was a really swell idea, but apparently it did not occur to anyone else that due to the fact we are no longer starving, we could knock that shit off. Seriously...Knock. It. Off.
After working largely with New Englanders for some time, I was overjoyed to come home to a work-office where the majority of people hailed from the Midwest - specifically Michigan. I could throw around terms such as Vernors, Michiana, and euchre (if you don't know, it's a soft drink, a place and a card game) without explanation. I was comfortable with others who experienced tornado drills in elementary school, knew how to pronounce the word "Ypsilanti," could show where they grew up on their right hand, and really didn't see the big deal if you were given Canadian coins as change.
One of the upstanding humans I met on the job hailed from Flint. My friend Erik and I didn't have a lot of common ground when we first met. He went to Michigan; I cheer for the Irish. He believes in pleated pants. I clearly do not (that one actually ended in violence...which was my own fault...I should have known better than to mess with someone from Flint). But where we did reach a quorum was with the casserole discussion. After major holidays, we would come back to work armed with horror stories from family dinners. ...I believe the discussion specifically began with the statement, "Who's the fucktard that decided to add marshmallows to jello?" (which stems from the more obvious question, "who's the asshole that invented jello?") and from there took on a life of its own. This spiraled into a conspiracy of hijacking our next pot luck party so as to serve only casseroles. There were multiple discussions regarding what dishes would be supplied. What casserole was the best? The worst? The most common? The nastiest?
Erik's favorite was Tater Tot Hot Dish. Tater Tot Hot Dish consists of ground beef, cream of mushroom soup, cream of celery soup (who knew they made that?), french onions and, of course, tater tots. And I believe this was followed closely by Taco Pie -- which is Pillsbury crescent rolls smoothed into a pie crust and filled with ground beef, shredded cheddar, and crumbled nacho chips. ...so, OK, those are not too bad. Naturally I had to kick it up a notch...or twelve. I threatened to serve not only a main dish, but a dessert. The main dish was a treat (and by "treat" I mean "crap") that my grandmother (from Toledo) served us as children. It was called Hollywood Chicken and was neither from Hollywood nor made from chicken. It consisted of ground beef (do you notice a theme?), layered with a can of condensed chicken noodle soup and finally topped with crumbled potato chips. It tasted like salt...which is fine if you're a deer. My follow up and piece de resistance was the Coca Cola Salad. (...yeah, I realize that entire phrase is an oxymoron). Coca Cola Salad is some type of red jello prepared with coke instead of water. But wait! You then add walnuts (which suck) and shredded coconut and congeal. (...and vomit.)
We never did sabotage the office pot luck, but the exercise of bitching about the food messes to which we were subjected as children was definitely a bonding experience. In fact, I still affectionately refer to Erik as my work-husband. The road from Hollywood Chicken to snottie girl insisting on Oregon pinots had been a long one. But as we come to the end of another year and reflect (...and think about our inevitable demise according to the Mayan calendar) it's nice to look back at how far we've come: (...and to judge others. That's fun too.) Erik and his beautiful wife are both excellent chefs. And I'm not so bad; I certainly know my way around a wine cellar. So hopefully...hopefully...the next generation will never be subjected to Hollywood Chicken...or iceberg lettuce.
So coming from a farm that does not produce edible food does not help one become a gourmet. And growing up in the 1980s didn't help. As a child, I had a diet that consisted primarily of fruit roll-ups, hostess products in a variety of forms, (I was an especially big fan of the pink marshmallow covered snowballs.) and bologna on white bread...with whole milk. But of course the staple of a proper Midwestern diet is the casserole. I'm not entirely certain of the origin of the casserole, but I do know I have experienced it in almost every variety. I suppose during the Great Depression, mixing half a leftover can of tuna with noodles and cream of mushroom soup was a really swell idea, but apparently it did not occur to anyone else that due to the fact we are no longer starving, we could knock that shit off. Seriously...Knock. It. Off.
After working largely with New Englanders for some time, I was overjoyed to come home to a work-office where the majority of people hailed from the Midwest - specifically Michigan. I could throw around terms such as Vernors, Michiana, and euchre (if you don't know, it's a soft drink, a place and a card game) without explanation. I was comfortable with others who experienced tornado drills in elementary school, knew how to pronounce the word "Ypsilanti," could show where they grew up on their right hand, and really didn't see the big deal if you were given Canadian coins as change.
One of the upstanding humans I met on the job hailed from Flint. My friend Erik and I didn't have a lot of common ground when we first met. He went to Michigan; I cheer for the Irish. He believes in pleated pants. I clearly do not (that one actually ended in violence...which was my own fault...I should have known better than to mess with someone from Flint). But where we did reach a quorum was with the casserole discussion. After major holidays, we would come back to work armed with horror stories from family dinners. ...I believe the discussion specifically began with the statement, "Who's the fucktard that decided to add marshmallows to jello?" (which stems from the more obvious question, "who's the asshole that invented jello?") and from there took on a life of its own. This spiraled into a conspiracy of hijacking our next pot luck party so as to serve only casseroles. There were multiple discussions regarding what dishes would be supplied. What casserole was the best? The worst? The most common? The nastiest?
Erik's favorite was Tater Tot Hot Dish. Tater Tot Hot Dish consists of ground beef, cream of mushroom soup, cream of celery soup (who knew they made that?), french onions and, of course, tater tots. And I believe this was followed closely by Taco Pie -- which is Pillsbury crescent rolls smoothed into a pie crust and filled with ground beef, shredded cheddar, and crumbled nacho chips. ...so, OK, those are not too bad. Naturally I had to kick it up a notch...or twelve. I threatened to serve not only a main dish, but a dessert. The main dish was a treat (and by "treat" I mean "crap") that my grandmother (from Toledo) served us as children. It was called Hollywood Chicken and was neither from Hollywood nor made from chicken. It consisted of ground beef (do you notice a theme?), layered with a can of condensed chicken noodle soup and finally topped with crumbled potato chips. It tasted like salt...which is fine if you're a deer. My follow up and piece de resistance was the Coca Cola Salad. (...yeah, I realize that entire phrase is an oxymoron). Coca Cola Salad is some type of red jello prepared with coke instead of water. But wait! You then add walnuts (which suck) and shredded coconut and congeal. (...and vomit.)
We never did sabotage the office pot luck, but the exercise of bitching about the food messes to which we were subjected as children was definitely a bonding experience. In fact, I still affectionately refer to Erik as my work-husband. The road from Hollywood Chicken to snottie girl insisting on Oregon pinots had been a long one. But as we come to the end of another year and reflect (...and think about our inevitable demise according to the Mayan calendar) it's nice to look back at how far we've come: (...and to judge others. That's fun too.) Erik and his beautiful wife are both excellent chefs. And I'm not so bad; I certainly know my way around a wine cellar. So hopefully...hopefully...the next generation will never be subjected to Hollywood Chicken...or iceberg lettuce.
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