Today I made a roux and a green bean casserole to take over to my mom’s. I don’t think that I made enough roux — I should probably have made a double batch, given that I ended up making a half gallon of gravy. Of course, my mom had tossed the giblets because she thought that they were gross, but the gravy worked out okay anyway. This time I did not use too much black pepper.
I had to bug out early because I was feeling a little… I dunno. I could use some super fun party time tonight. Translate my heart into Japanese and back again: “Thousand being broken eyes overnight are not repaired.” It’s okay. I’m fine. That’s not as funny as “Macho Business Donkey Wrestler,” but we can’t ALL be News Radio. Oh, no we can’t.
I know that I had told myself that I was going to save my pinstriped black shirt for a hot date, but I needed extra propping up to make the casserole without freaking out while sweating the onions and mushrooms. I shaved, I looked great, but I couldn’t glue on my game face, no matter how good my grey corduroys look on me. Yes, I understand that marrying the pinstripes to the cords was asking for trouble, but Lisa gave the nod. Shit. I shoulda grabbed different pants.
Anyway, it was nice to see my extended family on my mom’s side. I put the turkey back in the oven right when it was time to be served because tearing off a leg revealed undercooked meat. Fucking great. Somewhere inside I was livid — partly at myself for not taking point on the bird. It turned out okay, the skin crisped up extra nice, but, you know, uh, shit. I’m gonna go watch some Law and Order.
If you like scratchin’ and hip hop and shit like that, yo, you should motherfucking check out the Gray Kid’s weird little online EP thing: “The Pilgrimage: Y’All Some Turkeys.”
Aw shit, motherfuckers, just listen to this fucking shit drop. That’s some fucked up SID chip action:
I don’t think that I can possibly ever swear enough.