Hell's Kitchen

Let me get right to the point! Emeril Lagasse I am not. As a matter of fact, I am a bit embarrassed to admit that I even know who "that guy" is. 

I view my relationship with food as a strictly business transaction. While being raised by a mother and step-father that were over-the-road truck drivers, I learned that eating is something that you do quickly and with a purpose so as to get back to knocking out the miles of life. My beloved Marine Corps only cemented those ideas that food was something we needed -  although we didn't need to enjoy it. Want some instant entertainment? Watch a platoon of Marines dismantle the Chow Hall in the matter of minutes and be on their way.

Please don't get the impression that I don't like food or somehow don't enjoy eating. That couldn't be farther from the truth. I have multiple favorites that include Ma's Biscuits and Gravy, Michele's Chicken Dumpling Soup and Rose's Tater Tot Hot Dish. It's in the Preparation Department where I lack serious skills. To me, every kitchen may as well be Hell's Kitchen.

I think I'm guilty of False Advertising. You see, when I was courting my bride in the Ol' College Days, I invited her and a friend out to the lake house for a meal on me. The image is burned into my memory banks as perhaps the time when Michele may have subconsciously thought that she was embarking on a relationship with a fella that knew his way around the kitchen. This "Rocco DiSpirito" must now confess that the dinner delicacy that I whipped up for Becky and Michele that night in 2001 was one of those "meals-in-a-bag" concoctions. You know the mix of chicken and vegetables that merely requires a warm body to assemble a frying pan and that magical puck of sauces to be melted and stirred into the mess. I had not fussed over a garden for fresh vegetables. I did not raise, slaughter and season the chicken myself. I knew nothing of the contents of the magical puck. I only knew that enough fire would get me pointed in the right direction.

I won the girl.

But now 6 years into our wonderful marriage I am overcome with grief on a routine basis when I am asked to assemble anything remotely close to a unique and dynamic meal. I am completely honest when saying that my parents did not show me the mysterious ways of a kitchen. But as an adult I know that Ignorance is not an Excuse. I must be a "take charge" kind of guy and give it a sporting chance. And so I do. A few times there have been small triumphs. A "beer-can chicken" here or a "wild turkey Kabob" there.... but nothing to hang my hat on. 

I have a college degree and can follow SIMPLE instructions but have learned through this difficult process that unless things are EXACTLY as they are printed in the directions, I tend to stumble and fall. Contrary to popular belief, Marines are not Robots. They are trained to Improvise, Adapt and Overcome. I am proud to say that I am generally able to identify with that. However, when it comes to making dinner, if there is any Improvising to be done I am instantly thrown into a small panic attack. Seriously. Ask Michele. She politely giggles and offers support over the phone. I can hear the sincerity in her voice when she tells me that "it's not that hard honey." I can also hear the anguish as she realizes that the man that she married simply doesn't know that Soy Sauce and Teriyaki Sauce are two different things. Meal preparation is not in my Skill Set.

With food I tend to look at the Cost/Benefit Analysis. I struggle to see the need to put myself through the heartache I've come to associate with the kitchen when it rarely takes me more than 5 minutes to eat. I am the Marine son of a truck driver. This may be the perfect storm of high chloresterol waiting to happen -  I know. My caveman ancestors are also to blame for passing on their Ancient Kirby Family Recipe....

Kill

Add Fire

Eat

Repeat.

I will continue to TRY dear. I'm sorry the Chicken and Broccoli Teriyaki (whatever the hell it's called) didn't work out. I ate it but that's not saying much. 

Logan did too but like Mikey - he'll eat anything. 

I appreciate all that you do for us. I love you -

 sincerely,

Your Wolfgang Puck wannabe

p.s.

The CornDogs are in the fridge.