recipes

Just picture a great big steak –Fried, roasted or stewed.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Nope!  Nope!  Nope!

That would have been me as a seven-year-old being asked to eat green beans. Or lettuce.  Or tomatoes.  Or beans.  Or broccoli.  Or spinach.   Or Cheese (except American kraft singles). Or onions.  Or liver.  Or fish (except fish sticks). Or a whole host of other foods.  I was a very picky eater.  

For all my parent’s faults, and as I’ve written they were many, they never forced my brother or me to eat foods we didn’t like.  There was always an alternative for us.  As kids I don’t remember my brother being as picky as me, but I flat out just refused to eat certain foods.  

When I started working at Day’s Inn Restaurant in high school, first as a dishwasher and then as a short order cook, my horizons broadened EVER so slightly.  I learned that tomatoes weren’t the devil’s food.  I learned that bakes scrod was not bad.  

When I was 16, I went to prom with my friend Julia.  Completely platonic.  I don’t even think she planned to go until I asked.  I took her to dinner, wearing a baby blue tuxedo with the frilled shirt, at the Marriot Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky.  

We ordered strawberry daiquiris, and prime rib.  I knew all about prime rib because we served it at Day’s Inn.  What I wasn’t prepared for was for the prime rib to be RARE when it landed on the table.  I was not about to embarrass myself in front of my date/friend so I toughed it out and ate it.  In a word, it was delicious.  It was the first time in my life that I learned that steak didn’t need to be shoe leather to eat it.  It was melt in your mouth delicious.  And I was hooked.  No more shoe leather for me. 

Through college I was still a picky eater.  I remember going to Florida for spring break and my friends were ordering oysters.  PUKE.  The very thought of putting a live slimy creature in my mouth and swallowing was disgusting.  Why would anyone want to do that.  

Fast forward to Atlanta and I was still picky.   Once again, I went out to eat with a friend at a fancy restaurant and she ordered portabella mushrooms.  I was asked if I wanted to share, and not wanting to embarrass myself, I said what the hell.  And they were delicious.  Yum.  Yum.  Yum.  I’ve been eating mushrooms ever since.  

Fast forward to New York City.  I’m dating someone who invites me to dinner.  We go out and he orders salmon.  Medium Rare.  At this point the only fish I’m eating is filet o fish at McDonald’s.  Once again, I’m asked if I want to try it, and not wanting to embarrass myself I say yes.  Who knew that fish could be so delicious.  

I could keep going.  I go out to eat.  I don’t want to embarrass myself.  I eat the food.  It’s delicious.  Rinse and Repeat.  

Fast forward to 2009. I meet a boy in a bookstore.  I give him my number.  He asks me to brunch.  I say yes. We meet for said brunch.  I order an omelet.  I eat said omelet.  New boy says he doesn’t like eggs.  17 years later he still doesn’t like eggs.  

Meanwhile, 17 years later I eat everything.  

Medium-rare steak.  Why cook it all?  Steak tartare for me.  

Oysters.  Raw, fried, roasted, baked.  Yes, please the more the merrier.  

Escargot.  Snails.  Can we double the order, so I can eat all of them.  

Fish.  All the fish.  Salmon. Swordfish.  Tuna.  Halibut.  Yes. Yes. Yes.  I don’t even care if you cook it.  Tuna tartare is one of my favorite foods now.  

Caviar:  Fish eggs?  Yes, please.  I’d eat it every day if I could afford it.  

Vegetables.  There isn’t a vegetable I won’t eat.  Salad of all kinds is delicious.  

Onions.  LOVE em.  In all foods.  On a burger.  In a salad.  In soup.  Yum. Yum. Yum.  

I have a very small list of foods that I don’t like.  And even then, I will still eat them.  

When we went to Argentina in 2023, I said that I’d eat anything on the table, whether I liked it or not.  

I’m not a fan of olives.  But they started every meal.  I ate them.  

Sweetbreads.  Look it up.  Sweetbreads are a delicacy made from the thymus and pancreas glands of young animals, most commonly veal or lamb, prized for their rich, creamy texture and mild, subtly sweet flavor.  50 years ago, I’d probably have thrown up first.  They are fucking delicious.  

Blood sausage.  Blood sausage is a type of sausage made from blood (usually pork), mixed with a filler like grains (oats, barley, rice) or breadcrumbs, and seasonings, then cooked and solidified.  Delicious. Yum.  

Which brings me to last night.  

For dinner last night, Adam served a meal of foods that I would have not eaten probably even 20 years ago. We had French onion soup, with extra cheese, steak tartare with crostini, spring mix with a light vinegarette dressing, and goat cheese tart with an olive tamponade.  And for dessert pistachio and lemon bars.  

The very idea of little Jeff sitting down to a plate of food that consisted of all his least favorites is still funny to me.  But last night, I stuffed my face.  It was all delicious.  

I’m glad.  Life is so much more exciting and wonderful when you like food.  I’m very adventurous and will try most everything.  I don’t like everything but I will try it.  By the way kangaroo carpaccio (raw kangaroo) is delicious.  

The two foods that I tend to not eat on their own are olives and blue cheese.  I will eat them in a salad or in other dishes, but I prefer not to.  Last night as Adam was spooning out the olive tamponade onto my plate, I said “not too much”, and he said your prompt for tomorrow is olives.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Nope!  Nope!  Nope!

That would have been me as a seven-year-old being asked to eat green beans. Or lettuce.  Or tomatoes.  Or beans.  Or broccoli.  Or spinach.   Or Cheese (except American kraft singles). Or onions.  Or liver.  Or fish (except fish sticks). Or a whole host of other foods.  I was a very picky eater.  

For all my parent’s faults, and as I’ve written they were many, they never forced my brother or me to eat foods we didn’t like.  There was always an alternative for us.  As kids I don’t remember my brother being as picky as me, but I flat out just refused to eat certain foods.  

When I started working at Day’s Inn Restaurant in high school, first as a dishwasher and then as a short order cook, my horizons broadened EVER so slightly.  I learned that tomatoes weren’t the devil’s food.  I learned that bakes scrod was not bad.  

When I was 16, I went to prom with my friend Julia.  Completely platonic.  I don’t even think she planned to go until I asked.  I took her to dinner, wearing a baby blue tuxedo with the frilled shirt, at the Marriot Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky.  

We ordered strawberry daiquiris, and prime rib.  I knew all about prime rib because we served it at Day’s Inn.  What I wasn’t prepared for was for the prime rib to be RARE when it landed on the table.  I was not about to embarrass myself in front of my date/friend so I toughed it out and ate it.  In a word, it was delicious.  It was the first time in my life that I learned that steak didn’t need to be shoe leather to eat it.  It was melt in your mouth delicious.  And I was hooked.  No more shoe leather for me. 

Through college I was still a picky eater.  I remember going to Florida for spring break and my friends were ordering oysters.  PUKE.  The very thought of putting a live slimy creature in my mouth and swallowing was disgusting.  Why would anyone want to do that.  

Fast forward to Atlanta and I was still picky.   Once again, I went out to eat with a friend at a fancy restaurant and she ordered portabella mushrooms.  I was asked if I wanted to share, and not wanting to embarrass myself, I said what the hell.  And they were delicious.  Yum.  Yum.  Yum.  I’ve been eating mushrooms ever since.  

Fast forward to New York City.  I’m dating someone who invites me to dinner.  We go out and he orders salmon.  Medium Rare.  At this point the only fish I’m eating is filet o fish at McDonald’s.  Once again, I’m asked if I want to try it, and not wanting to embarrass myself I say yes.  Who knew that fish could be so delicious.  

I could keep going.  I go out to eat.  I don’t want to embarrass myself.  I eat the food.  It’s delicious.  Rinse and Repeat.  

Fast forward to 2009. I meet a boy in a bookstore.  I give him my number.  He asks me to brunch.  I say yes. We meet for said brunch.  I order an omelet.  I eat said omelet.  New boy says he doesn’t like eggs.  17 years later he still doesn’t like eggs.  

Meanwhile, 17 years later I eat everything.  

Medium-rare steak.  Why cook it all?  Steak tartare for me.  Hopefully with a raw chicken or quail egg on top.

Oysters.  Raw, fried, roasted, baked.  Yes, please the more the merrier.  

Escargot.  Snails.  Can we double the order, so I can eat all of them.  

Fish.  All the fish.  Salmon. Swordfish.  Tuna.  Halibut.  Yes. Yes. Yes.  I don’t even care if you cook it.  Tuna tartare is one of my favorite foods now.  

Caviar:  Fish eggs?  Yes, please.  I’d eat it every day if I could afford it.  

Vegetables.  There isn’t a vegetable I won’t eat.  Salad of all kinds is delicious.  

Onions.  LOVE em.  In all foods.  On a burger.  In a salad.  In soup.  Yum. Yum. Yum.  

I have a very small list of foods that I don’t like.  And even then, I will still eat them.  

When we went to Argentina in 2023, I said that I’d eat anything on the table, whether I liked it or not.  

I’m not a fan of olives.  But they started every meal.  I ate them.  

Sweetbreads.  Look it up.  Sweetbreads are a delicacy made from the thymus and pancreas glands of young animals, most commonly veal or lamb, prized for their rich, creamy texture and mild, subtly sweet flavor.  50 years ago, I’d probably have thrown up first.  They are fucking delicious.  

Blood sausage.  Blood sausage is a type of sausage made from blood (usually pork), mixed with a filler like grains (oats, barley, rice) or breadcrumbs, and seasonings, then cooked and solidified.  Delicious. Yum.  

Which brings me to last night.  

For dinner last night, Adam served a meal of foods that I would have not eaten probably even 20 years ago. We had French onion soup, with extra cheese, steak tartare with crostini, spring mix with a light vinegarette dressing, and goat cheese tart with an olive tamponade.  And for dessert pistachio and lemon bars.  

The very idea of little Jeff sitting down to a plate of food that consisted of all his least favorites is still funny to me.  But last night, I stuffed my face.  It was all delicious.  

I’m glad.  Life is so much more exciting and wonderful when you like food.  I’m very adventurous and will try most everything.  I don’t like everything but I will try it.  By the way kangaroo carpaccio (raw kangaroo) is delicious.  

The two foods that I tend to not eat on their own are olives and blue cheese.  I will eat them in a salad or in other dishes, but I prefer not to.  Last night as Adam was spooning out the olive tamponade onto my plate, I said “not too much”, and he said your prompt for tomorrow is olives.  

Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager.

The first time I ever had chicken fried steak was in Memphis, Texas. Adam and I had driven from NYC to Memphis, Texas to see his family. It was a two-day drive (should have been three) that started in an intense snow storm.

If you’ve never had chicken fried steak, it is a thin cut of beef, pounded even thinner, coated in flour then pan fried, and finished with cream gravy. When done right, you should be able to cut the steak with your fork. It should also be melt in your mouth delicious.

I can still remember that day clear as anything. It was coldish, and we parked in the city square where Gloria’s restaurant was located. We got out of the car and walked toward the front door. Adam put his hand on my back and told me I was going to love it. We walk in and someone from across the restaurant says, “Hey, are you Kelly’s boy? I haven’t seen you in forever.” Adam waved and said that he was. We were told to sit where we wanted.

We grabbed a table near the middle of the restaurant, that was open. There were several other tables occupied by people enjoying a midday lunch of Texas home cooked comfort food. We looked at the menus, and Adam said he didn’t need a menu, he was getting country fried steak. I told him I was going to get the same, as I’d never had it. He assured me this would be one of the best versions I’d ever had.

A waitress came over and got our order. Two country fried steaks, and two Diet Cokes. She takes the menu and Adam gently reaches out for my hand. He squeezes it and I squeeze his back in return. We sit there talking as I look around.

It is a very simple café, no frills. Plain tables. Paper napkins. In the back of the restaurant, sat a very thin older woman, taking a drag off a cigarette. It had been a long time since I’d been in a restaurant that allowed smoking. For all I knew that might have been Gloria herself.

We sit there holding hands as he tells me what the rest of the afternoon will look like. We are going to see his cousins. He’s going to drive me around and show me the town he grew up in. And we are going to go a little further out of town and he’ll show me the house they built when he was a really little.

I wish I could say, I was relaxed and comfortable during this conversation. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I was holding a man’s hand in a VERY small, very conservative Texas town. Were we going to get beaten up?

Here’s the thing that straight people don’t deal with that the LGBT community does. Internalized homophobia. The paralyzing fear that someone might find out your deepest darkest secret.

As I tell this story, I was 43. I’d been mostly out my whole adult life. I first came out in Atlanta in 1987. But even then, there were people who didn’t know. I was secretive in my professional life. I was secretive with my parents. And I certainly wasn’t walking around holding anyone’s hand.

Yes, I said my parents. I didn’t hide the fact that I was gay from my parents. I also didn’t share the truth either. I lived in a one-bedroom apartment, with several boyfriends. My parents came to share meals at these homes. There were Advocate magazines on the coffee table. There was a rainbow postcard on my fridge. We just didn’t talk about it.

Adam was shocked when he learned this. About four weeks into us dating, he told me that we couldn’t move forward if I didn’t tell my mom about him. I wanted to ask him why.

I loved my mother as much as I could. But she was not interested in my life. She barely knew what classes I had taken in high school, let alone what I was doing in grad school. Our phone calls consisted of how’s the weather, how’s everyone doing, have you talked to so and so, and when are you coming home. She really didn’t need to know that I had a new boyfriend.

Adam was adamant.

A week before Valentine’s Day in 2009, while standing in Hell’s Kitchen on the Upper West Side, on Eighth Avenue, I told my mother I was gay. I told my her I had a date with a boy on Valentine’s Day. His name was Adam. That I liked him a lot. She was non plussed. She wasn’t surprised, but I wouldn’t say she was interested either. We talked for a few more minutes and then we hung up. That was done, I could keep my new boyfriend.

The other thing that Adam did, which I had never done before, was hold my hand everywhere we went. Walking down the street. In the grocery store. On the subway.

And eventually, in Memphis, Texas.

To say I was self-conscience, is an understatement. I learned to hold my breath and just go with it. I was convinced that we were going to get beaten up any minute. But it never happened and as the years passed, I stopped giving a fuck. About people knowing in my professional life, and about holding my boyfriend’s hand.

Now we hold hands everywhere. In the airport. In the mall. At dinner in a restaurant. In Kentucky and even in Texas. I keep my fingers crossed that we’ll never get beaten up.

I now love that he unconsciously reaches for my hand. That whenever we are together, whether at home or in public, that I’m only a few seconds away from him reaching for me. It’s comforting and loving. It’s one of the things I like most about him.

There we sat holding hands at Glorias, in Memphis Texas, when our waitress arrived with two chicken fried steaks. It was beyond delicious. I never picked up my knife, the fork cut right through it. The steak was tender. The breading was perfect. And the cream gravy might have been the best I’d ever had.

We ate, continuing to talk about what our time in Texas would look like. Holding hands the whole while.

Adam’s and my relationship is not perfect. Is anyone’s. But he’s made me a better man. And he’s done a lot to eradicate my internalized homophobia. At 61, I don’t much give a fuck anymore. If the sight of two middle aged, well one middle aged, one old man, holding hands upsets you, I really think you need to reevaluate your life.

Because at the end of the day…LOVE IS LOVE.

And sometimes it comes with a serving of the best chicken fried steak you’ve ever had, covered in white gravy.

Today’s prompt was gravy.

Gonna give you barley, carrots and pertaters—

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I have always remembered things from my early childhood. Very early. Memories from when I was two or three. Very clear. Very specific memories. And they are definitely not stories that I was told and then created memories of. These are very detailed memories of a small child growing up in Kentucky.

Some of those memories:

I remember a neighbor wrecking her motorcycle in front of our home and my mother passing out because of it. Neither of them were seriously injured.

I remember making mud puddles in our back yard getting the water for the mess from the hand water pump from the kids next door.

I remember putting my hand through our front storm door, when my aunt was chasing me and trying to tie me up.

And my favorite memory from that age, is going to bed. I lived with my mom, her two sisters and my cousin Ricky. It was a four-room house, with a tiny bathroom. I slept with my mom, in a very small bedroom in the back of the house.

On the particular night in question, my mom and I were going to bed. She entered the room, smoking a cigarette, Viceroy’s if I remember correctly, and got into bed. She told me to get into bed as well. But first. I had to say good night to my stuffed animals. My favorite of my toys, was a talking Bugs Bunny Doll. You pulled the string on his back and he said, “What’s up, doc?”

I got into bed, and hugged him close and said, “Good night, Bugs Bunny.” I can see the lamp beside my mom on. She slept on the right side of the bed. Me on the left. Bugs was pulled close on the left side of me. I remember turning over, and hugging him and going to sleep.

There are so many other memories from this time, but that’s my favorite.

My mother took advantage of my love for Bugs Bunny to get me to eat vegetables. I was a very picky eater as a child. And for all of my parents faults, they never forced us to eat food we didn’t like. It was never eat it, or go hungry.

For example, when my mother made liver and onions for my father and her, we’d get a pork chop, or a piece of chicken. While I can eat liver now, it will never be a fan favorite.

However, Bugs Bunny LOVED carrots. LOVED them. So therefore, I LOVED carrots. To this day, it’s probably my favorite vegetable. I love them in any form. Raw. Roasted. Boiled. Out of a can. Out of the garden. In other dishes. Love them. Adam will often roast them in the oven, with just a bit of char. YUM!!!

I googled Bugs Bunny and carrots before starting this post. His love of carrots came from a tribute to It Happened One Night. Clark Gable chewed on carrots and this was a little appreciation from the makers of the cartoons. According to the Google, Bugs Bunny did for carrots what Popeye did for spinach. I do know that it worked on me, because I’d eat them every night as a kid. PS. I was not a fan of popeye, so I didn’t develop a love of spinach until 30 years later.

As I googled information about Bugs Bunny and carrots I learned that carrots should not be a staple for bunnies as they have a high sugar content. A great snack but should not be a staple.

It made me laugh, as I remember working at Day’s Inn restaurant in high school, out off Insterate 75. I started as a dishwasher, but was eventually promoted to cook. A one cook, short order kitchen, with hand written tickets. Fried chicken. Prime rib. Baked scrod. Western omelets. Turkey clubs. I was quick and good at it. Making $3.35 an hour back in 1904.

All of our food arrived frozen and in cans. Thus making it fucking delicious gourmet food in 1904. The carrots came in #10 cans. Giant. I’d use the industrial can opener to get them open. I dump them in a large pot. And then I’d add at least a cup of sugar, because god knows carrots aren’t sweet enough on their own. PS. #10 cans are great for putting table legs on if you need to lift the table to a counter height, which is better for your back.

After the carrots were hot, I’d dump the whole pot into the steam table, and then they’d be ready for service. The fried chicken would come with mashed potatoes (or baked potato if you paid more), a giant scoop of carrots and a garnish of a candied apple ring on a piece of iceberg lettuce. Fun fact, it took a hot minute for the chicken breasts to cook so you the server had to let the guests know that it might take a minute. Probably be a good idea to give them extra rolls or biscuits.

I was a grown ass adult, living on my own in an apartment in Atlanta before I learned that canned carrots do NOT need a cup of sugar to make them good.

Disclosure:

Adam pushes me to write, because he knows how much I love it. However, I get distracted, depressed, tired and its easier to watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy than to sit down at the computer and write. He came in tonight and asked me if I was writing yet and I said no. I didn’t know what to write about. And he said carrots. Write about carrots.

So, this my friends is my composition on carrots.

I hope you enjoyed.

It’s gotta happen, happen sometime. Maybe this time, I’ll win

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Was I wrong?  

Tonight, I actually asked to speak to the manager.  

Adam and I sometimes have chicken Caesar salads.  

And we discovered a while back, that it’s easier to pick up Popeye’s chicken than it is to cook our own.  

Adam suggested salads tonight, and so drove to the Popeye’s out by the mall to pick up chicken.  

I ordered the chicken.  Get to the window and pay for the chicken.

I’m handed my chicken. 

At this point, I remember that I forgot to order a biscuit for Adam.  

I ask the guy at the window to buy a window.  

He tells me that I need to drive around, get in line, and order again.

I say seriously?

He says yes.

I say, seriously?

He says yes?

I ask to the speak to the manager.

He comes to the window, says, 1 buscuit?  

I say yes, he says that will be $1.50.

I give him the money. 

He gives me the biscuit.

The whole exchange took 90 seconds.  

So here is the question…

Was I wrong for not driving around.

Or was it silly for them to ask me to drive around for a 90 second transaction.  

Meanwhile, I have an appointment to get my hair frosted and cut into a Karen cut tomorrow.