Last week my daughter told me that she wanted to have steak for dinner, so I said “My offspring! Your carnivorous dreams will come true!”
I announced the good news to Husbandrinka. “On Thursday, we shall have steak!”
He looked alarmed. “You should probably wait for me to get home so that I can prepare it,” he said.
Blink, I said.
Pray tell, why, I said.
“Because you overcook everything,” he said.
“Just because I don’t want to give my meat a transfusion while I’m eating it, doesn’t mean that I overcook it,” I said.
I seethed and I fumed, but I bought the steak.
The only problem was that every recipe I looked up seemed to require a decade-long marinade and I was already starting to exhibit early warning signs of famine.
Quickly, I threw on some soy sauce, after triple checking that it wasn’t Karo syrup because that shouldn’t happen to any junior Julia Child more than once, and I was all set.
Except I was faced with my age old dilemma. Where the fuck is the broiler?
It’s my culinary Achilles’ Heel. My domestic Moby Dick.
I called John.
“What are you, a retarded moron?” he asked. (Please don’t be mad at him for using such politically incorrect language. Pity him. For he knows not what he does. See, Exhibit A, Stroking).
I called Papa.
“This is complex question,” he told me. “You lived in apartment almost fifteen years, and you don’t know broiler? Also, what is broiler?”
Mama wasn’t much help, either.
“Call Husband. He good cook and smart.”
“I can’t call him, mama,” I sighed. “Because he thinks that I won’t be able to cook the steak and if I tell him that I don’t know where the broiler is, he will hold it against me in a court of law, forsaking all others for as long as we both shall live.”
What? Are you trying to tell me that in a moment of tremendous stress you’ve never confused the Miranda warning and marriage vows?
“Why he think you can’t cook? You are wonderful cook, Marinka. Wonderful. When you were more young, you made best cakes. They look good. I think taste good, too, because you always ate fast. No cake left for me and papa. But you were happy. And skinny. Metabolism changes. You are not young. You diet. Instead of steak, have fish. Maybe be vegetarian. I know you can lose weight.”
“Ok, but where is the broiler?”
“I don’t know, but the whole internet is oyster belonging to you. Ask internet.”
Mama was absolutely right. And not just about the cake.
So, I asked Twitter.
Because Twitter is like The Oracle. You ask it questions and you get answers.
A Jew-hating Oracle.
The replies started coming in and the answer became clear as day. An overcast day on which a nuclear apocalypse occurs.
Behold the wisdom:
Huge disclaimer, ironically in tiny type: You may or may not have noticed that each screen cap has a “humorous” Google search term in the upper right hand corner. I did it as a sort of “bonus” feature for careful readers. Except, I chose an unfortunate one for this screen cap, which I think makes it sound like I am calling the people who responded to me stupid. They are not. I could have redone the screen cap, but I’ve already spent so much time on Project Screencap that I can’t spare another second. Especially since I apparently have to write epic length explanations about it. Sorry. I love all these people. And if you are still not convinced, remember which one of us didn’t know where the broiler was. OMG, typing in tiny print is super difficult. I wonder if anyone will read it.
I fully appreciated it:
and then, Eureka!
I was excited to discover where the broiler is.
I broiled the steaks and they were delicious.
Although I may have chipped a tooth chewing it.
I’m not worried, though, I’m sure that Twitter will walk me through emergency dental care. Because when the stakes are high, Twitter comes through for me.
One year ago ...
- The Hello - 2012