In many aspects, I'm pretty stereotypical Mexican-- I have long brown hair that I usually wear down or in a braid, dark brown eyes, I'm Catholic, I shoot straight double shots of tequila without flinching, I watch novelas (once in a while... if my favorite actors are in it, or there's a lot of fighting), I like to clean (when I'm in the mood), I have a mean punch that can knock a boy out (yes, I've tried), and I love mariachi (I love all Mexican music, just not Duranguense... that shit is ATROCIOUS).
However, I'm not too stereotypical in what matters: I can't cook for shit.
My culinary skills peaked at the age of ten, when I learned how to boil water. Sure, I can make huevos rancheros for breakfast... and french toast... and... basically, I'm really good with eggs (yeah, I did that on purpose).
I can make any type of burrito-- I'm a master... as long as someone else prepares the rice, beans... anything that requires messing with flames or blood.
No one can fuck with me when it comes to quesadillas, those are my specialty.
... And my Mexican cooking skills go to hell after that.
Fajitas? Mom does that. Carne asada? Mom does that too (my Dad... bless his heart... he can't handle that shit). Enchiladas? I tried... but... I don't like frying shit, it scares me when the oil flies everywhere. I panic if even the slightest drop finds its way onto my skin.
Rellenos, sopas, ceviche, mole, you name it... mom does it. It's no coincidence that my room is the furthest away from the kitchen.
Well... I don't know what came over me today, what the fuck possessed me to do this, but I decided I could handle chilaquiles.
At a glance, it's nothing too hard. It's basically enchiladas that look like a bomb went off on (hmmm, ending sentences with prepositions makes me uneasy). Cut up tortillas, chile colorado, grated cheese, and shredded chicken breast (well-seasoned with oregano and cumin... and diced onion).
How the hell did I fuck this up?
I imagine people would worry once the chicken enters the picture. How could they not? There are so many elements of danger in it.
First is the boiling of the chicken. If you guessed this, you would be wrong. Remember, boiling water is one of my proudest moments... so no problem there.
The shredding of the chicken? I used two forks and I was good.
The sauteing of the onion and chicken? I handled that well, since there wasn't much oil in the pan to begin with. Nothing jumped too high to send me into a shrieking frenzy.
No, no... I fucked up in the easiest part: the grating of the cheese. Task I've completed time and time again. This apparently gave me an overconfidence that nearly cost me my right thumb. Ok, it wasn't that bad, but I did cut the shit out of it.
I was trying to finish the piece of cheese, and halfway through the task, I felt the knuckle on my thumb go.
"FUCK! I CUT MYSELF!!"
Mom: Oh, AnoMALIE, I told you you didn't have to...
Since my blood seems to lack the proper amount of thrombin or some shit, the slightest cut produces a freakish amount of blood to gush out of my wounds. My body's freakin' scandalous. This was no exception-- I started to bleed like a hemophiliac.
I had to leave my chilaquiles unattended, apply pressure to my thumb, man-up to add hydrogen peroxide (only thing I really have in my drawer... scars be damned), then apply my Hello Kitty band-aid. After all was fixed, I went back and finished making my food.
And of course they tasted like heaven. Did I tell the rest of the house what happened? No. I just told them to eat the food at their own risk... that should be enough, right?
Another stereotypical Mexicanism of mine? I don't go to the doctor until I'm fucking dying of something. I don't need no doctor, damn it!
I'm gonna look awesome for tomorrow's wedding... I'm going to have a nice bloody and bruised thumb to show off.
I'll apologize to my partner when I see him later today. Hopefully he refuses to touch my hand.
1 comment:
I'm good at making pop tarts ;)
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