When a Good Man Makes Bad Dinner

It started innocently enough with a phone call.

J: You called?
D: Yes, where are you at?
J: Just getting off the freeway.
D: Do me a favor?
J: Sure, what is it?
D: Can you stop and grab a pizza?
J: I thought you were making dinner?
D: I did, but I tried to throw something together, and well… it pretty much tastes like ass.

So I get home after grabbing the pizza (oh-so-thankful for the new Little Caesar’s that just opened nearby) and inspect D’s attempts at dinner. Normally he is an inventive, creative chef and some of the most “interesting” looking dishes are quite amazing.

This was sitting on the stovetop when I got home.




It doesn’t LOOK like it tastes like ass. I mean, you can’t really ruin pasta dishes. Can you? Little Brother and I both decide it can’t be THAT bad, and grab a forkful. At first taste, its actually not terrible, but OH. MY.GAH. The aftertaste! I couldn’t quite place it… until I noticed the contents of the trash can.

Seriously? Cream-of-fecking-celery? With diced tomatoes and parmesan cheese? Really? REALLY?

But here’s the kicker. D says it’s not the celery. He asks do I detect a hint of vanilla? Apparently he was attempting to make Alfredo sauce and we didn’t have any heavy cream, so he substituted a little of this instead.

Bon Appetit! Dinner is served!

P.S. This is not the only food-related anecdote in our family. The "Great Minestrone Soup Incident" will be a point of disagreement in our family for years to come. Some day when there is the time and energy to spend, that story can be retold in it's full glory.