My First Dinner

We’ve developed a rule at my house, due in no small part to the laziness of myself and my older brother, that everyone has to cook dinner at least once a week. To spare our “aged and decrepit” mother (HER WORDS!) the effort of doing it. Meh, doesn’t bother me. I’m off at school most of the time so I’m exempt. OR SO I THOUGHT.

Even after the semester ended I was exempt due to strenuous work hours. My task-master of an aunt owns a chocolate shop, and as you can imagine it gets quite busy around Christmas. Just today I made about 20 solid chocolate 3D reindeer, only to have them all sold less than 40 minutes after I left. You fuckers all need to start buying something else before I find you and shove a chocolate reindeer up your ass.

Anyways, I decided to cook my usual speciality of scrambled eggs. This is a pretty boring dish, so I spiced it up a bit by adding chicken, and a red and green pepper. It was for dinner, we needed some meat. I usually say that. But who knew that cutting peppers could be so EXHAUSTING? I was tired halfway through the red one. Having already worked out all my anger at the chocolate shop customers on the red pepper, I decided to skip slicing up a tomato as well (it was part of the original plan). I turn my tired arms onto the labor of cutting the green pepper. Damn it took forever.

I got home around 5:30 and started preparing the meal around 5:45. I smartly asked for already diced chicken to cook into the eggs. Cuz fuck, I wasn’t gonna cut the damn thing myself. After finishing with the peppers, I threw the chicken into some olive oil onto the stove. I was quite unsure of myself, having never really cooked anything before. I miraculously managed not to burn the house down. Right now you’re almost as surprised as I was.

My family seems to think that my regular scrambled eggs are a gift from god. I have one secret ingredient and I won’t tell you what it is. Except that it’s copious amounts of shredded cheddar cheese added to the eggs while they’re still in liquid form. Trust me. Or not. Whatever. While the chicken was cooking, I started crackin eggs. And throwing in cheese. I’m really not sure how much I put in, but it was at least half a bag. If you don’t like cheese, don’t eat my eggs.

The chicken takes forever to get cooked enough (in my opinion anyways, hell if I know if it actually was) so I add the peppers to the chicken. The eggs are also all mixed up (with the cheese, this is important) so I throw them onto the stove as well. They seem to take forever to heat up as well. I’m impatient for my food after a long day at work. Me wanty eaty. It’s dragging closer and closer to 7 at this point, which is when we usually eat. The ravenous wolves (my mother and cousin) are circling. I can tell it’ll be flesh off my bones if dinner isn’t ready soon.

I utter prayers to every deity I can think of that likes we gays. Madonna, Cher, all the biggies. I even threw in Jane Lynch to be safe. The combined might of these gods act to finish cooking my chicken and vegetables, so I toss them into the eggs which are finally starting to congeal. Sadly, adding the extras makes them cook slower. I throw caution to the winds and turn up the burner. I’m writing this from my house, so it obviously avoided being burned down. Twice in one night! If it were sentient it’d think it had won the lottery.

I served the eggs just in time to save myself from a cannibalistic death. I’m quite proud. My favorite quote of the night came from my mom:

Mom - “Kevin, where did you get the recipe for this?”
Kevin - “I pulled it outta the seat of my pants.”