I’m writing this feature listening to Aqua mixed with Sean Paul, proving that my mind as finally gone over.
Enjoying the single life again has meant bonding with the various objects in my kitchen. Since the departure of my last significant other my toaster and I have entered into a relationship that no woman could ever understand, for example. With that in mind, and realizing that I haven’t done a feature of this sort in four years or so, I decided to go around grading the various things in my food preparation zone. This is what I’ve decided.
Vivian’s toaster created warm bread that tasted vaguely of petrochemicals and had slots so small that sticking a fork in them to travel through time to sit on ancient fish was nearly impossible. That hideous thing left with her, leaving me free to buy a real, but very cheap, toaster. Then I went to Costco and bought 48 Pop-Tarts, two bags of fresh bagels, two loaves of wheat bread, and a crate of Eggo waffles. Other than the microwave, the toaster is now the only appliance I leave plugged in full time. As a breakfast enabling device it cannot be beat, although it is very one dimensional. I give it bonus points for scaring the shit out of the cats whenever the cycle is done, however. This thing ejects hot baked cereals with a gusto unseen since the Hawaiian hookers of World War II. A solid A.
I call it the garborator because sometimes, just sometimes, Canadians come up with cool terms. It devours everything. The only thing I eat with any regularity I’ve been loathe to try in it so far is cob corn. The best part of it, though, is what happens when you turn it on when it’s full. With a sound can only be described as an unholy roar, the entire counter vibrates, pregnant women nearby go into labor and give birth to bladed infants, dogs howl, frail old people die, and garbage is disposed. This gets more than an A+. This is A fucking Plus.
1.5 Quart Crock Pot
Do you have any idea how hard it is to make 1.5 quarts of anything? So far I’ve made chili and beef stew in this thing, and it took actual effort and complex mathematics to scale down my recipes to match its capacity. The second time I made both of those things I just said fuck it and made them on the stove in a standard pot. It works as advertised, however, and it was the same price as the toaster. Seven entire dollars, brand new. B-.
This thing was awesome. But it just fucking broke after less than year. The rigorous twisting forces I applied to it to wrest pepper from its grasp to smother my sometimes horrible cooking caused the internals of this thing to collapse; its grinding mechanism was ripped asunder. I mourn it as I use my backup, but because it died, it’s definitely a failure. F.
Without this, I could not make rice. I’m serious. Not a chance in hell. I suck that bad. I won’t even grade it because I’m afraid it will get mad at me and stop making rice.
In a similar cannot-be-graded vein, there is the microwave. I’m unsure as to how humanity survived without one. Shit, I can’t even remember how I lived in Italy without one. This must be my brain suppressing trauma.
Serrated Chef’s Knife
The ex took her Santoku with her so I pulled out the giant serrated chef’s knife that came with our cheap steak knife set. Maybe it’s because I pretty much only chop jalapenos or something, but I really like this thing just as well as any knife ever. I guess I’m not a knife snob. C, though, for being quite obviously a piece of shit, even if I’m okay with it.
This is the single most delicious device I own, and at the same time the least used. Contrary to popular belief bread makers do not make creating delicious bread easy, they make it easier. They make creating shitty bread easy. I admit I can be slightly biased here, as anyone who knows me knows that I could quite easily make an entire meal of nothing but bread, and I have done so in the past. Even with a bread maker preparing a fresh loaf of honey wheat takes more effort than I’m usually willing to put into it for just myself living here. I usually make loaves when people come over for something. As such, I’m giving this a solid B for deliciousness tempered by the fact that it takes up a ton of space in the cabinets and only gets used rarely.
Everything is better deep fried. And this is a problem. When I was finishing up my semester papers back in April this thing lived on the counter. I talked to it. From its maw came french fries and cheese sticks aplenty. It was okay; I was on brain-food only for the month. But then I had to put away, because it being there was too tempting. I don’t want to become D-shaped like my friend Travis. I like being I-shaped. I knew it was time for it to go live with the bread machine when I had a fifteen minute conversation on whether or not I should attempt to fry a homemade pizza. The sensual possibilities offered by such a concoction, if it was even halfway delicious as the thought of it promised it would be, meant that should I ever taste such a thing I would collapse into a singularity of gluttony. So I shoved the thing in the back of the cabinet, behind a bunch of things that are annoying to take out, and went outside and hiked three miles.
Seriously. That last sentence is not hyperbole in the slightest.
A for terror. It’d be an A+ if the damn timer hadn’t been broken right out of the box. Considering most things only have to be fried for less than five minutes I’m not even sure what purpose a timer would serve, but since it’s there, I want the fucking thing to work.