Plum Dinner

In keeping with my recent theme, which is clearly called annoying disasters in the kitchen that make me a little cranky, I will tell you a new tale, which is about being cut off from all cookingness (and general life needs) due to this: my gas seems to have been shut off for no apparent reason. Which means that, on Wednesday evening, before I actually knew that all my gas had gone missing, I stood at the stove for a half an hour, cursing every last stove bit, trying to light the burners (which M. calls eyes, which is utterly adorable, yet beyond the point of this story because as you recall, I am MAD). After eighteen thousand failed attempts, and after setting myself on fire fourteen times, I decided to give up. Really, who needs to actually use a stove, for pete's sake? Who needs to cook?! Not me! I've got better things to do, I decided. Like eat plums for dinner.

In the next scene, I am discovering that my dryer full of wet clothes is not actually getting dry. Moving them around, yes. Making them dry? Not so much. So then it was decided: the gas had probably been shut off. (Seriously, how long does it take me to give in? Um, a very long time.) Next scene, I am discovering that the "hot" water coming out of the faucet isn't really all that hot. I tried to pretend it was hot for about two minutes, and then I succumbed and called Peoples Gas, which is the most terrible excuse for a business operation, ever. EVER. To sum it up, I contacted what's called the "emergency hotline for all your gas needs and services," only to be told that they could come out "probably sometime in the next 48 hours, between the hours of 6 am and 10 pm." Yep, that's right, folks, 48 hours. No rush, guys, really. Who needs warmth, anyway? Who needs clean things or cooked food? Nobody, that's who! Warmth is for losers! I decided at that point that I was clearly never going to cook again. Or have a shower. Or have clean clothes. It's a pirate's life for me. I'm ready.

What planet are we on, anyway? Why would we be at home for 48 hours straight during the week? Argh. Needless to say, I turned down the service offer due to, you know, having a life, and, several cold showers later, I called them back this evening to start the prison sentence. So, here I am in prison. Cooking prison. The thing is, I like fruit, and I like cereal, and I like toast and salads and salami and cheese. They are, however, only a good thing to have for dinner when you are rebelling against the stove. When you don't have the option of cooking, it is, of course, all you want to do. It is quite funny the things that I've dreamed of making since Wednesday night -- things that I rarely want to make in real life -- flan! madeleines! duck! crackers! tempura squash blossoms! Yet, alas. I am destined to be resourceful and clever for at least awhile, and I will look at lots of pictures of cooked foods and pretend that I just made them. I will do this, and I will wait patiently and pretend that I hate to cook and pretend that there is not an entire bushel of peaches in my refrigerator waiting to be made into jam. It's cool. Really, Peoples Gas, it's cool. I don't need you! I love my plum dinner and I love it here in cooking prison. So there!

Dragon Slayer

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, a dragonfruit was discovered at the Golden Pacific Asian Market on North Broadway Street in Chicago (you know, home of Just As Fresh One noodles). It was one of five dragonfruits, nestled in a box, all of which had traveled many miles in order to land in this spot, on this shelf, in this market, in Chicago, a quadrillion-billion miles from the nearest dragonfruit tree. It was a miracle!

I was excited about this miracle because it would not only be my first dragonfruit, it would be a snack, an experiment, and a small but mighty culinary adventure. Onward, I said! (Not really. But we'll say I said this. It makes me out to be more of a knight.)

So, cut to dragonfruit living on my kitchen counter for a week. Maybe, um, two. Now, in my defense, this dragonfruit was not yet ripe when I checked it the first five times. (I am nearly certain that there is no fruit on earth that is intended to be consumed when it is the consistency of a brick -- except, uh, coconut.) In the dragonfruit's defense, this dragonfruit was easily ripe after the first seven days of living in my house. I watched it get less and less pink, less and less fancy. I wasn't ready yet! I didn't know what to do with it! I was nervous, for crying out loud! I worried. I shrugged and pretended I didn't see it sitting there, bemoaning its sad, uneaten life. Give me a peach, or a mango, or a fig, or even a kumquat, and I can pretty much find a way to consume it before it shrivels up completely. Agh, dragonfruit. Help!

Next, please cut to me traveling with the dragonfruit to Michigan, where it continued to sit on a counter top, looking sad and pitiful there as well. Then, finally, one day I had had enough. I went at it. I took that dragon by its scrawny neck! I peeled off its leathery skin! I attacked it! My dad took the sword, I mean, knife, to it! We poked it and prodded it, cut it into bits! I...discovered that it is very pretty on the inside. I discovered that it is not all that delicious when it has traveled so far and had a lengthy vacation on two kitchen counters while I thought about what to do with it. Seriously, think of something that tastes like wet paper -- like, oh, say, mushy wet paper. I read later that dragonfruit is "so delicious because it's so crunchy." Oops. I think I missed my window, or rather the whole, entire, confusing dragonfruit boat. Ah, slaying. Always more educational than one expects.