I like to cook in a rather loosey-goosey style.
Willy-nilly, if you will.
Hither and yon, even.
OK, not really hither and yon, but I couldn't think of a third willy-nillyism.
Usually, it works gangbusters.
The crazy cooking.
Not the hither and yon.
The cooking goes pretty well.
I get compliments.
People tell other people it was great.
Every once in a while, though, something happens.
Something so bad that I question my sanity.
My ability to ever cook a decent meal again.
My worth in the kitchen.
Even if it's only to wash dishes.
On Sunday, we decided to make some seriously bad for us food.
Country fried steak.
As my friend Tanya would say, "fuck YEAH!"
I haven't made country fried steak in years.
But it used to be one of my specialties.
You know, back when I could eat what I wanted and all I got was zits.
Trying to recall what it was I did to it back then, and what I've learned in the meantime, I hit upon W. sauce.
I'd spell it out for you, but I can't.
I think it's named after a county in Britain.
I could be wrong.
Then again, I could be right.
Either way, I have learned it makes beef delightful.
'Brings out the ....
In hindsight, I should have spritzed some on the cube steaks themselves.
Hindsight's a bitch.
Instead, I created this monstrosity.
I put the W. sauce in the coating.
You'd think this image alone would have made me throw on the brakes, but oh, nnnooooo ....
Suffice to say it won't happen again.
If you need me, I'll be nuking some Lean Pockets.