No challenge speed-slaps the stay-at-home dad as much as cooking. He might neglect many aspects of the trade, such as behemoth dustballs banging into his ankles, but the sight of his family’s xylophonic ribcages cannot be ignored.
That’s why the crockpot is the dad’s friend. You can put anything into a crockpot and it’ll turn out pretty good. You can put in a frozen sheep head with three cups of Liquid Plumr, and your guests will rave about its musky, Old World taste.
Whatever the meal, the dad must cook something, mainly to appease the go-to-work mom. There’s no more venomous death-stare than that of the mom who drags her swollen feet into an odorless, tasteless kitchen and says, “What have you been doing all day?”
Dust can be swept under the chairs and wash can be stuffed back in the drier, but hunger cannot be placated. There must be food!
So I suggest this equation to all stay-at-homes, of all genders: frozen chicken + crockpot = happy spouse.
Yesterday my wife bounded through the door, her face beatific. “What smells so great? Nothing makes me happier than the smell of a cooked meal!”
“Oh, it’s nothing, dear. Just something my daddy taught me. It’s called chicken larou beelie traebeur monsieur la qui.”
“Wow, I didn’t know your dad cooked French.”
“Yes. After the war he worked in Normandy. By night he worked as a bus station chef, and by day, using only pipe cleaners, he made sculptures of porcupines. He was an amazing man.”
She lifted up the crockpot lid and sniffed as though for twenty years her nostrils had been buried.”
“It smells terrific. And it’s so creamy!”
“Well put that lid back on, little lady. Please don’t mess with the crockpot. And yes, it’s very creamy.”
You bet it was creamy. That morning I had poured a bottle of ranch dressing over four frozen chicken breasts. Sounds disgusting, doesn’t it, but for some inexplicable reason, it tastes pretty good.
Now it only tastes pretty good if you don’t tell the working spouse that all you’ve done is slather four frozen chicken breasts with ranch dressing. Prep time: twenty-five seconds.
“Joe, what’s in the sauce?”
“Cream from Alpine goats, mixed with the whites of five platypus eggs, with a dash of vanilla extract, cumin, and the white platelets from Mary Todd Lincoln.”
In addition to fake ingredients, you must give the concoction a fake name, preferably French. Don’t know French? Neither do I. Just make up some nonsense syllables. Also, pile up pots and pans in the sink. No, no, don’t use the pots and pans; just pull them out, rub butter on their bottoms, and admire your handiwork.
Need more crackerjack recipes? Read on!
“Honey, dinner smells fantastic. It looks so tomatoey and bubbly. What do you call this?”
“Chicken peppolini angeoplasti nickcelini.”
“What’s in it?”
“I could tell you dear,” I chortled, “but then I would have to chop you up and put you in tomorrow’s crockpot.”
In all actuality, it was four frozen chicken breasts with two cans of tomato sauce poured over it. Prep time: seventy seconds, and that’s because the can opener kept spinning.
In addition to piling up the pots and pans, I also cranked up the oven to 650 degrees, smeared tomato peals over the counter, and bandaged my fingertips.
Come on: what do you expect? Do you think my parents taught me anything about cooking? Do you think my dad played catch with me in the backyard with a wad of linguini or a ball of beef tenderloin? My dad was a real man: he never cooked unless fingers of fire crackled around the food and unless the final product had a nice, one-inch crust of carbon.
So when I make dinner, there’s not exactly fourteen generations of Toners swirling around me, connecting me to the old sod. Cooking was a pain in the ptooey for my ancestors, and it’s a pain in the ptooey for me.