Food: A Love Story (23 page)

In Cleveland I love to eat at a place called Panini’s that is legendary for putting fries and slaw in their sandwiches. This is different from the Pittsburgh version because in Cleveland the sandwich is ironed. By the way, they love to drink in Cleveland too. I imagine this is what you would call a “happy accident” created when someone in Cleveland was eating the Pittsburgh-style sandwich while ironing and drinking at the same time. This idea is not too far-fetched, considering that in Cleveland their river always catches on fire.

TOP MICROWAVE CHEF

Whenever a politician gives a speech about getting America working again, I always cringe a little. Not just because it’s an empty political promise, but also because I’m not a fan of work in general. I usually think,
Ugh, I hope this
work
isn’t going to involve movement. It better not be yard work!
I’m a fan of relaxing, and when I get tired of relaxing I like to do nothing. I view cooking as work. I don’t enjoy cooking, so I don’t follow the logic sometimes presented to me: “Hey, you love food, so you must enjoy cooking.” I also enjoy sleeping, but that doesn’t mean I like making a bed.

Thankfully, other people enjoy cooking. Even more thankfully, some other people
really
enjoy cooking. I guess I feel the same way about
not
cooking that those people feel about cooking. It’s really a win-win for everyone involved, especially if the food is free. I occasionally enjoy watching people make food. It’s relaxing, I guess. I have noticed that the Food Network is far more interesting when I’m hungry. When I’m full I usually think,
Well, this cooking show is silly. Why would anyone watch this?
But when I’m hungry, really hungry, the Food Network
is amazing, a visual spectacle. I watch it like some of you degenerates watch porn. “Oh yeah. Whip it up, baby!”

As you know by now, I’m an eater, not a cooker. Besides the microwave, I don’t even know what half the stuff in my kitchen is for. Most kitchen appliances just feel like an unnecessary waste of space. Has anyone not on a cooking show ever even used their blender for anything other than mixed drinks? Before I got married, I stored blankets in my oven. Yes, it was that nice of a place.

Most of the times when I cook I’m using a microwave, which, of course, is not cooking. It’s just me pressing buttons and waiting for the
bing
. As I mentioned in my homemade hot dog recipe, I barely even know how to use a microwave. I’ve never tried to light one, but mostly all I know is you aren’t supposed to put metal or wet cats in there. This is not a good thing, given I’m occasionally in charge of feeding a gaggle of small children. “Okay, for lunch here are your options: you can have hot dogs, popcorn, or cold hot dogs.” The manufacturers understand there are people like me, which is why microwaves have buttons like reheat and popcorn. I once stayed in a hotel that had a microwave that had a dinner button. I pressed the dinner button, but when I opened the microwave door, there was no dinner there. I guess the microwave was broken.

When I cook something in a microwave, I rarely read the directions on the packaging. That’s right. I just wing it. I’m dangerous like that. I’m like the Evel Knievel of microwave cooking. I don’t even understand why some microwavable foods
have
instructions. If you’re cooking a frozen burrito in a microwave, are you that interested in quality? It might as well say, “Toss this into the microwave for a little bit and then shove it into your mouth after it cools, you tub of gluttony.” On Amy’s Bowls you are instructed to “Stop, rotate this dish,
and stir the contents.” Like that would happen. I might as well be making something from scratch out of
The Joy of Cooking
. If microwavable food has any directions beyond “Stick in microwave and press a button,” I assume they were trying to add wording to the packaging to fill space.

BOSS:
It’s kind of empty on the back of the package. Maybe add some writing.

EMPLOYEE:
About what? It’s a burrito.

BOSS:
I don’t know. Tell people how to open the microwave door. The packaging is going to look weird without writing on it.

Microwaves are like winter coats. They warm quickly, people never clean them, and they look ugly after a year. Nothing that you put in a microwave is that exciting. That’s why there is always forgotten food in there. At times a microwave just seems like a box to hide half-full cups of cold coffee in. The microwave is an odd way to cook anything, when you think about it. From my uninformed viewpoint it seems as though someone thought,
Hey, you know the technology of the atomic bomb? What if we used that to make popcorn?

MUSEUM OF FOOD

If you are eating at home, this means you or someone you live with went to the grocery store. I’ve always had a strange attachment to grocery stores, and I don’t say this just because many of my stand-up set lists are indistinguishable from my grocery store lists. One summer in high school I had the pleasure of working in a grocery store. My job title was “stock boy,” which involved stocking shelves with cans and boxes of food while I fielded never-ending questioning from my well-intentioned but relentless born-again Christian coworkers. “Have you been saved?” “If you died right now, would you go to heaven?” “Why are you putting headphones on?” To make matters more inspiring, the soundtrack that played over the grocery store sound system that summer was a single cassette of Country Music’s Greatest Hits. On repeat. All day. Day after day. Near the end of August I was a devout atheist who knew all the words to “Elvira” and never wanted to enter another grocery store. El-vi-RA!

Now, by God’s grace and probably thanks to the prayers of those born-again Christians, I love going to the grocery store.
For me it’s like going to an art museum of food I’ve eaten. Ah, the work of Frito-Lay. What a lovely exhibit. Peanut butter and jelly in the same jar? A masterpiece. What is this Double Stuf Oreos? How abstract. In grocery stores food is on display at its finest. All the produce is shiny and color coordinated. All the boxes and cans are colorful and organized. I love the food packaging. It’s like the clothing of food. “Oh, what are you wearing there, cookie? A lovely Mint Milano bag?” “Candy, let me help remove your wrapper.” It seems the fancier the food, the nicer the packaging. While Pepperidge Farm bread is packaged in the equivalent of a three-piece suit, generic cereal comes in plastic bags and lives on the bottom shelf like it’s homeless. I always think,
We should find you a box to live in.

I couldn’t fit down the aisle of this NYC grocery store.

The variety at most grocery stores is staggering. There are innumerable kinds of peanut butter: smooth, chunky, natural,
sugar free, crunchy, and even extreme chunky. I’m pretty sure if I bought the extreme chunky, I’d open it up only to discover it was just peanuts. It would be
extreme
trying to spread those peanuts on bread. “This is radical!” The “extreme” products of any kind make you feel like a coward eating the regular stuff. “Hey, look at that wimp eating regular Doritos. You can’t handle the
extreme
Doritos, can you?” “Uh, I’m working my way up to it.” Grocery stores show how complicated we humans have made food. Dogs would definitely conclude that we are really putting too much thought into this food thing. This is probably why dogs are not allowed in grocery stores.

I’m happily married, but supposedly the grocery store is a great place for singles to meet. I’m not sure how this works. “I see you got the Charmin there in your cart. It really is more absorbent. Wanna grab a cup of coffee?” It’s impossible to buy toilet paper without some level of embarrassment. We all need it, but I am always self-conscious wheeling around the toilet paper in my cart. It normally comes in these giant twelve-packs, and I feel like everyone is staring at me. “Does that guy ever leave the bathroom?” I never want to see
anyone
in a grocery store, let alone
singles.
I was only hit on once at the grocery store. I remember it was early one Saturday morning and I was buying my daily bacon, when I got tapped on the shoulder. I turned around and I saw a rather short and very feeble eighty-year-old lady looking up at me. She said in a weak, scratchy voice, “Excuse me, young man, could you reach up and grab some ketchup for me?” Well, I’m no dummy. I know when I’m getting hit on. I smiled politely and reached up for the ketchup, knowing full well that she just wanted to get a gander at my derriere. As I handed her the ketchup, she said, “Thank you,” like I was some piece of meat, a boy toy, or something. Finally I just blurted out, “Look, I’m married, lady!” She acted all surprised and confused. “Excuse me? I don’t understand!” I shook
my head with a smirk, raised my left hand, and showed her my wedding ring. “Married!” I loudly told her. “I’m taken!” A stock boy at the end of the aisle looked at us and inquired, “Is everything okay?” “I’m fine,” I assured him. “I know how to deal with predators.” Well, suddenly this sex-crazed lady got all angry at
me
. Like
I
was out of line. She huffed off. “Well, I never!” “And you ain’t gonna with me either,” I yelled after her. I have to admit, it was nice to get the attention.