and welcome to my first blog on notanotherfuckingfoodblog.com.
It’s my very own cooking blog, because I looked around and figured the world is lacking food blogs. Food blogs that are worth reading that is.
You see, there’s two things I like: cooking and writing. This I have in common with any other person with a cooking blog. Of course other people’s recipes are almost always more or less satisfying while reading through their material is a bigger hurdle than Britney trying to get pregnant.
My cooking on the other hand is as inspiring as Rosa Parks taking an Uber while my writing is very, very bearable, at times even decent.
I guess you could say it’s a reverse food blog. Instead of ploughing through endless meanderings on how the smell of fresh basil can lift your spirits or how you can deepfry anything to make your kids eat vegetables, or any other inoffensive but equally boring piece of food-foreplay written only to please the gods of Google, all because you just want to get your hands on a good recipe, I intend to treat you to a pleasant word salad that ends in disaster:
Put simply, I like to cook but I kind of suck at it. I also like to write, and according to some – indeed, I’m referring to my mother – I’m actually quite good at it.
The result is a food blog where you come for the food and have someone feed you thoughts.
However, true to fashion I will end every post with a long awaited recipe. So if you read this far, here’s the reward for your efforts:
How to make a peanut butter sandwich
Ingredients: – Peanut butter – Bread
Fun fact: In my home country of the Netherlands, peanut butter is actually called ‘peanut cheese’ and both its flavor and texture are quite different from the American stuff.
Anyway, you take a slice of bread and spread peanut butter all over it.
My boyfriend never laughs at my jokes, which would only not be a problem if I never made any jokes.
The thing is, being funny is kind of my MO.
Or rather, trying to be funny is my MO.
Whenever I interact with human beings, my main goal is to add humor to whatever situation I’m in.
When I’m having lunch with colleagues, I don’t speak unless I believe what I have to say is a joke of sorts. When I’m talking to a friend who’s going through a breakup, I’ll make light of the situation at the expense of whoever ghosted who. When I’m giving a speech at my mother’s funeral, I’ll kick it off with a joke to lighten the mood.
I’m like a robot whose main directive is mustbefunny.exe.
While the crowd at my mother’s funeral laughed at my joke, it’s weird that I compulsively wanted to make grieving people laugh as I was standing within arm’s length of my mother’s casket.
Basically, everything that comes out of my mouth goes through this But is it funny!? filter.
For some reason I think that being funny constitutes the best of what I have to offer any situation.
Of course I also have opinions on things. But when for example someone asks me for a solution to the Israel-Palestine issue, I keep whatever knowledge I have to myself and tell anyone listening those two should fix their territorial issues with a friendly game of Twister. That way I can speak my mind without actually revealing any of it.
I don’t know. Israel and Palestine playing a game of Twister sounded funny in my head, but reading it back it seems misplaced like a clown in a fast food restaurant.
To make matters more dysfunctional, I don’t do physical comedy, I can’t do accents and my acting skills wouldn’t even qualify me as a background character in a car dealership commercial. So really all the comedy I have to give is my own words, void of any inflection, emotion or soul.
I’m funnybot, and I’d be worse at stand-up comedy than Stephen Hawking, is what I’m saying.
Was that funny?
It sounded funny in my head, but reading it back it feels more forced than Ellen’s apology. Also, pairing the world’s most famous ALS patient and the word stand-up in one sentence kinda feels insensitive and cheap like using Anne Frank as the subject of an anorexia joke.
Was that funny?
I mean, we’re barely 500 words into a blog post on how I always try to be funny and already I’m resorting to holocaust jokes at the expense of its most famous victim. Instead of resorting to Anne Frank I could’ve also used the words Kaitlyn Jenner and driving lessons in a sentence and be done with it, or Dick Cheney and shooting lessons, but no, I just had to grab hold of the holocaust first chance I got.
It should come as no surprise my boyfriend never laughs at my jokes.
And it’s not because he’s Jewish.
Don’t get me wrong, he often laughs at me, but never when I try to be funny. It’s really frustrating. Actually being funny vs. being laughed at unintentionally is like finding Nemo vs. finding Nemo in a sushi restaurant.
Did that do anything? Or was that somehow even more disappointing than Anne Frank’s sequel?
Whenever I try to make my boyfriend laugh by means of jokes I make up on the spot, he responds with a passive sigh that briefly carries all of the world’s sadness. It’s as if he laments all his life’s choices in those moments I crack jokes, not exactly the response you’re going for when you’re trying to be funny.
Yet he still says he loves me, so that can only mean he doesn’t love me for my jokes, but for something I consider less valuable. I guess my kindness or something, or my cuddles, if that even is a trait. I know he’s not with me for my cooking, as my food tends to get the same reception as my jokes.
It gets sadder.
You see, people do laugh at my jokes. Hell, I killed at my mother’s funeral. But the better people know me, the less they think I’m funny.
Which can only mean that the people who laugh at my jokes do so because they know it’s what I’m asking of them, the same way they’d give a dog a treat for doing the bare minimum such as having puppy eyes.
Of course one way to stop the torture would be for me to stop trying to be funny.
But have you ever told an OCD patient the universe won’t implode if they don’t wash their hands at least three times, or taught a dog not to have eyes?
You haven’t, because we all have OCD one way or another and we’re all dogs asking for treats in some sense.
In conclusion, I like to eat alone, with nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company.
It allows me to be funny to the right audience: me.
When I eat alone, I get to enjoy two things that don’t amuse my boyfriend: my own thoughts and broccoli.
Enter my broccoli soup, which is the most derivative of all soups found on the internet, but it works, precisely because, like my sense of humor, it’s basic on all the right levels.
How to make broccoli soup:
Broccoli (like one chunk or anywhere between 200-400 grams, and in case you’re wondering why I don’t offer any imperial measurements on this blog, it’s because imperial measurements are, like my jokes, stupid.) Vegetable broth, like 500 ml 1 onion 1 mid-sized potato As much garlic as you see fit Parmesan cheese (50 grams of the powdered stuff or a handful of freshly grated parmesan cheese) Creme fraiche (like 125 ml or whatever a handful of creme fraiche is in imperial measurements) Salt and pepper
Not only are imperial measurements stupid, they also make most other fucking food blogs impossible to work with.
Anyway, you start with chopping up the onion and garlic and peeling the potato.
Then you heat some olive oil in a soup pan – yes, I forgot to add olive oil to the ingredients because it’s something you always have in stock – and then bake the onions and garlic for 2 to 4 minutes, or 69.7 to 77.3 cow’s breaths in imperial measurements.
Add the potato (in one piece, or in smaller pieces), then the broccoli (in small pieces), stir it a little and then add the vegetable broth.
Bring the whole thing to a boil and let it gently cook for about half an hour, or until the broccoli and potatoes are so soft it’s essentially become baby food.
After cooking, take an immersion blender – yes, I’m assuming you have one of those – and blend the soup until it’s become a soup.
Next add the creme fraiche and blend it some more. Next add the grated cheese and continue blending until it once again becomes a soup you’re blending.
And then you eat.
Or rather, your soup is now ready to serve. You can even make the meal more interesting by adding some bread and french cheeses, tapenades, hummus, tzatziki, you name it.
Of course I haven’t been living under a rock for the past decade, so I can’t say the experience ruined my innocence. I was however surprised by the amount of people with opinions.
Not surprised there were many people with opinions, but more that everyone has their own opinion.
Honestly it was a little intimidating. Twitter feels like a stadium full of people where everybody is shouting at everybody at the same time and expects to be heard, understood and validated.
Some people have 20 people listening to them, others have 50,000 or more. But everybody’s screaming their lungs out all the same, and everybody seems equally unheard.
After all, who goes to Twitter to listen?
And naturally, it made me wonder: what’s the point of anyone going on Twitter and sharing their thoughts? Twitter is very much like a nuclear bomb: just because we have the technology to use it, doesn’t mean we should, or that we’re entitled to even.
Then again, why wouldn’t my thoughts on things deserve some credence? At my very core I’m a thing with thoughts. If I don’t use my right as a thing to share thoughts on a platform designed to accommodate that very thing, wouldn’t that equate to me waiving my right to think freely?
(The answer is no, just watch The Matrix for proof the world was at its peak before billions of things with thoughts started sharing their thoughts on things. The real reason I’m going on Twitter is of course for people to validate the thoughts that I think and the thing that I am.)
The whole reason I started Not Another Fucking Food Blog was to write about whatever I want without caring what anyone thinks or even if anyone’s interested.
Why would Twitter be intimidating if I decided not to care? How could both be true?
Scrolling through the #antivax feed I quickly realized few people seem concerned with that discrepancy. From the staunchest virology expert supporting facts with data all the way down (yes, down) to former A-list celebrities bragging about their antibodies and off the deep end to 5G cultists or just straight up Nazis, everybody on Twitter is convinced their opinion is the right one.
It doesn’t matter if what you tweet is true or even if you care. The only qualifier is that you have thoughts on things. And on Twitter, the things don’t even have to be real. If anything, reality is measured by how loud you shout your things.
Realizing the bar is set to such low standards, I decided to give into my vanity as well, and start tweeting.
Not because I think my opinion on anything matters, but because I’m curious to see what it’s like to be in a stadium full of people and shout at random things with the rest of the people there.
Starting off with 0 followers isn’t exactly encouraging, but I quickly realized it doesn’t matter. It’s Twitter: you always write to the 50% that gets annoyed and to the other half who thinks they already thought the things I’m thinking.
To up the ante a little, I decided to tweet a reply on a thread. By chance or by algorithm, this is the thread I landed on:
As you can see, it’s a tweet from someone who doesn’t want the covid vaccine and makes a case for it because they’re not extremist, violent or even antivax, and also because they don’t like consequences, or because they don’t understand them.
It immediately unlocked some sort of my primal instinct: I got pissed.
People not getting a covid shot at best are misinformed by an overdose of too many thoughts on things that in reality are neither, but of course once you commit to anything being a thing and some stranger on the internet tells you your things are just thoughts and your thoughts are the things you need to rethink, people understandably get confused and think both your things and thoughts must be wrong, which they know because that’s what some stranger on the internet told them.
And that little word salad describes the most reasonable bracket of conspiracy theorists.
Go down the rabbit hole further and you quickly reach a level where thoughts and things are weapons of bad intentions, so when someone says Ey I’m really a good person because, you know, I’m not a terrorist, can I please live my life, have my thoughts on things, without someone else having their thoughts on my things? I get annoyed by the immaturity, lack of morality and just overall lack of happy thoughts.
So in drafting my reply to this now already 2 day old tweet, I wondered how much empathy I should add to the mix.
What do I enjoy more: being right or being kind?
Wait, can’t I be both right and kind?
Yes, but it makes for really boring tweets, so screw that thought.
I came up with my reply. It took me a few hours. Then, after another few hours of staring at my reply and quietly basking in my own thoughts on things, I tweeted it. I remember it well. It was Friday, just after 4 pm, and I really should’ve been focused on my work, this thing that I do at the office I was at.
Me sharing my things however was a much more monumental occasion than me writing yet another blog on email safety. I was about to get back to work, but then disaster struck:
I noticed a typo in my tweet, so I deleted it, then quickly added it again:
It even got one like!
Someone likes my thoughts on things!
Afterward, I did what most people working in startup companies in the Netherlands do on a Friday afternoon: I got totally hammered and subsequently broke all covid restrictions with my colleagues.
Being drunk makes twittering a whole lot easier, I found out.
On the train back home I opened Twitter on my phone and immediately stumbled on another few tweets on the subject of vaccinations. I felt jacked up and in the mood for battle.
And why wouldn’t I indulge myself? It’s not like things ever come from thoughts on Twitter, right?
Or maybe social media really is the reason the Architect of The Matrix traveled us back in time to right before.
I haven’t tweeted anything since I sobered up, mostly because when I woke up the next day I felt like I’d given a homeless person a handjob in exchange for money – not at all normative behavior for IT copywriters such as myself.
There’s a certain kind of sleaziness to Twitter that makes sense when you’re drunk or high, but when you enter that stadium unintoxicated it’s not unlike walking into an orgy sober (talking from experience).
That said, I have a whole arsenal of one-liners at my disposal, things I think of things throughout the day. They’re all tweet-ready, and no doubt I’ll fire more shots in the near future.
Twitter only gets me a little high. What’s the worst that could happen?
To celebrate my first tweet, I feasted on some salted nuts I bought at the grocery store on my way home:
How to go nuts:
Fossil fuels are basically dinosaurs, so technically climate change is their fault.
Anyway, few things are more rewarding than coming home from a hard day’s work or even just a regular hard day pretending to work and indulging on some artery cluttering gluttony. Chemically laden nuts are my favorite, in part because my boyfriend wants nothing to do with those, leaving me with more.
The recipe is quite simple. You go to a grocery store, buy nuts you like, go home, get high (optional), then start binging, on twitter, on content, on alcohol, and on nuts if drugs, alcohol and social media alone make you feel orally neglected.
And if that doesn’t do anything to cure your inner meh, you can always follow me on Twitter where I try to cure mine.
Which makes it all but impossible to have a normal conversation with him. We literally can’t even talk about the weather, because the mere mention of rain is reason enough to tell me how climate change is a hoax that somehow ties into nanobots coursing through my veins because I was stupid enough to blindly follow the mainstream media and get vaccinated and also I don’t really believe amateur pilots can fly a plane into a building, now do I?
Actually, that sounds exactly like the work of amateurs to me, but let’s not get sucked into the actual discussion about conspiracy theories.
Basically, the only thing my dad and I can agree upon is that the Earth is not flat and that god probably deserves little credit for it. Other than that we live in two completely different realities, in more than one way.
He lives in a remote little town somewhere in Ontario, his internet connection the only connection to the world outside. One could argue he was already social distancing before it became cool. I live in The Hague, which although not a techtropolis by any means, is a thousand times more worldly than my dad’s habitat.
In the old and more innocent days of the internet, let’s say up until the time people stopped paying for porn, I would regularly visit my dad in Canada. The last time was in 2009. Back then, he was convinced 9/11 was an inside job and naturally didn’t think for one second Lee Harvey Oswald fired any magic bullets.
Other than that, he was just another boomer who distrusted the government that had enabled him to be a homeowner with a steady pension.
I mean, if the government really wants to control my dad and his wokeness, they could cut his pension, but let’s not digress into making sense of things.
Distrust I guess became part of my dad’s DNA on account of his very religious upbringing. Being an intelligent person, my dad at an early age realized that religion is an unsubstantiated fairytale and distanced himself from blindly following anything that was presented to him.
Yes, the irony.
His hate for religion turned him into someone who now religiously believes in conspiracies.
I suppose it makes sense. Once you start poking plot holes in religion and ask yourself if virgins really can get pregnant, the question of whether airplane fuel can melt steel seems equally sound and scientific.
Of course my dad hasn’t seen Jane the Virgin and buildings don’t need to melt before they crumble, but let’s not get sucked into that.
My dad wasn’t born a radical conspiracy theorist who’s aching for millions of vaccinated people to drop dead so he can have the I hate to say I told you so but I told you so-moment that eclipses all other orgasms that came before. In fact, around the time I was born he was an avid peace protester, fighting against nukes at a time when people still very much had their finger on the trigger.
Nothing too extreme, but very much one note though. Emotional maturity, introspection and all that self help-section stuff has never really appeared on my father’s radar it seems. Instead personal growth to him always equated gaining more knowledge. First by reading books, later by reading the internet, lately by following wherever the algorithms took him.
Cut to 2021 and he’s now an expert climatologist, virologist, economist, engineer, astronomer and someone who’s more or less very much okay with people getting shot in the face when they ask others to wear a facemask.
Which is kind of the reason I snooze my dad when he tries to call me on Skype.
Whenever I talk to my dad, it’s either an exhausting attempt at smalltalk, a heated discussion about why it’s really not okay for him to tell his gay son how HIV is a hoax, or a weird hybrid like the plandemic is just a pretext for the powers that be to force a vaccine down our throats to eventually kill us all, oh speaking of dying, Kenny’s mother died a few weeks ago, did you know her, it was very sad.
Basically any conversation with my dad is either a discussion about what reality is or a summary of recently deceased people I never met.
Between the two, getting sucked into fake moon landings is the preferable option.
Because one thing me and my dad have in common is that we love being right.
I don’t often get myself into heated debates because I’m much too malleable and my backbone is made up of Flotsam and Jetsam. But with conspiracy theories, winning an argument is easier than looking at the moon. For someone who never wins an argument with sane people, conspiracy theorists are like cocaine to me: I hardly ever use it, but when I do, I go to town on them.
So whenever my dad ventures off into the subject of dying distant family, I tend to steer him back a little: Kenny’s mother died you say, you think it was from covid?
And within seconds Bill Gates is out to kill me and I get to point out why that’s clinically insane.
It was fun for a while, but early this year, as people started getting vaccinated, my dad became aggressive as a radicalized 71 (72?) year old would: by writing lengthy emails that explained in detail – actually, they were very much lacking in details – how taking a covid shot would be akin to signing my death warrant.
Or being subjugated, mind controlled or immunocompromized. His emails lacked consistency here and there.
So I wrote back, pointing out the inconsistencies in his email.
To which he wrote back, pointing out the inconsistencies in my inconsistencies.
So I took his email and pointed out every logical fallacy I learned about at univserity I could google.
I’m not gonna lie: it was really gratifying to be able to use fancy terms like non sequitur, cherry picking, unfounded assertion or appeal to fear as a means to show someone they were demonstrably wrong, even if that person is half the reason I exist.
I suppose there are people in this world who can be on the right sight of history without becoming pedantic, but when someone tells me vaccines contain nanobots to be used as tracking devices it requires inhuman amounts of strength to not be like Jesus fucking christ, dad, my cell phone knows where I am and what kind of fraternity porn I jerk off to, how are nanobots anything but a testament to redundancy in that scenario?
As more and more people got vaccinated and responded by not dying or being turned into assassination bots, my dad I believe grew a little anxious. Predicting doom and gloom quickly loses its mojo if both doom and gloom fail to show up.
The tone of his emails became more alienating: vaccinated people, it was “discovered”, shed spike proteins that could harm the unvaccinated. In other words: if you’re not with us, you’re against us.
That’s when I stopped replying to his messages. I had already reveled in pointing out every single one of his fallacies, what more could I do?
The last I heard from him was a very long email that ended with him saying he was worried sick about me. Honestly though, I couldn’t shake the feeling he was worried more about losing an audience for his truth.
However my dad seems to have cognitive dissonanced himself through billions of people getting vaccinated and not dying:
He called me on Skype last Friday. Then again on Friday evening. And on Saturday, twice. I basically just ghost him 80% of the time he tries to get in touch, the same way anyone would ghost a boy who cries wolf all the time. In the end I texted him to agree upon a time for a Skype call, giving me an opportunity to mentally prepare myself for our next drainfest:
Vaccines are still bad of course, but we won’t notice until a few months from now. Apparently the vaccinated will be in danger the moment it gets colder, which I suppose would really suck and already be noticeable for the few people still enjoying a cold climate, such as the ones in Iceland, Scandinavia or fucking Canada itself, but let’s, for the love of the god we both believe is a conspiracy, not get sucked into that discussion.
At least I didn’t when my dad brought it up.
Instead we talked about how I’ve been out of touch for such a long time. He was actually quite pissed about it: “If you don’t want to stay in touch, then just tell me!” I explained I don’t mind keeping in touch, but that I can’t be talking about conspiracies the entire time. There’s only so much cocaine one can do in any given conversation.
What I didn’t say was that conspiracies are actually the only thing my dad has in his repertoire that is of any interest to me.
Not that it matters, because my dad can’t go two sentences without segueing into conspiracies. And without exception the discussion ends with my dad running out of arguments and resorting to I really don’t understand how you can’t see what’s happening around you, I guess it must be too confrontational or maybe you just don’t care. To which I say I know you don’t understand it, dad.
Before covid, my dad would visit me and the rest of his family and friends in the Netherlands regularly, up until 2020, because Bill Gates – my dad has personally assured me that’s not a non sequitur.
It’s been Skype calls ever since. During our last conversation he lamented how unvaccinated people couldn’t travel anywhere, a few minutes after he predicted they will soon be rounded up in concentration camps. It was hard to tell which one of those bothered him most.
I told him you can get tested and travel just as freely, but no, those test swabs contain nanobots as well, so yeah, my dad’s essentially a political prisoner in the evil Canadian empire, which goes out of its way to prevent my dad from getting covid, the one thing that’s actually out to harm him at the moment.
Given that I have little interest spending my free time in some remote Ontario village with a former peace protester who’s grown fond of condoning murder, and that my dad might soon be deported to a concentration camp for refusing to cough in his arm, I don’t see my dad and I sharing a meal anytime soon.
Shame, cause I would’ve served him a delicious bolognese pasta with nanobots:
How to make nanobot pasta
Spaghetti, 100 grams per person Ground beef, as much as you’re comfortable with, the climate’s fucked either way Tomatoes Onion Red bell pepper Tomato paste Salt, pepper Clove Nanobots Spike protein Parmesan cheese
If vaccinated people shed spike proteins that harm the unvaccinated, wouldn’t this be a great incentive for antivaxxers to finally do some social distancing? And can fun facts really end with question marks?
Anyway, boil the pasta in salted water for however long it says on the package. For reasons unclear to me it’s always some small print in an inconspicuous corner that takes forever to find, meaning pasta manufacturers are bad at UX design or they’ve conspired to annoy us. I for one am gonna be doing some Google I mean research to look it up.
In the meantime, throw the meat in a baking pan with some olive oil – yes, I forgot to add ‘olive oil’ to the list of ingredients, my bad – until it looks like eating it won’t give you food poisoning. Then add the chopped onion – oh right, you needed to chop the onion – and let it simmer for a minute or so.
The red pepper and the tomatoes? You can chop those up too and add them to the meat. Add some tomato paste so the whole thing becomes a sauce and not just a collection of randomly paired ingredients.
Add some herbs and a pinch of clove, or whatever unit of measurement cloves come in. Don’t overdo the cloves as it’s a very dominating flavor. The only reason I’m adding it to this recipe is because it’s the way my dad always used to make it, you know, before 9/11 changed everything.
If you’ve come this far and you’re looking at some boiling pasta and a pan with sizzling pasta sauce, what comes next shouldn’t come as a surprise:
Drain the pasta, put it on a plate, add as much of the sauce as you want, throw as much parmesan cheese over it as you seem fit.
Now, to add spike protein and nanobots make sure you hold your pasta within 6 feet of a vaccinated person. They shed that stuff like it’s radiation from a neutron star.
And there you go, pasta the way my dad used to make it, with nanobots sprinkled on top!
Sometimes I wonder what the pandemic would’ve been like without food delivery and then I wake up sweating like an anti-vaxxer forced to look at data.
Personally, I don’t consider covid in any way traumatic or life changing. I haven’t been sick and I haven’t lost anyone dear to me. Well actually, my dad and I kind of stopped talking because he’s convinced I’m filled to the brim with nanobots courtesy of Pfizer, but other than that I surfed the many pandemic waves unscathed and mostly even unbothered.
A lot of that is because of Takeaway.com, Uber Eats, Deliveroo and the people they exploit to treat my incessant hunger and laziness.
People always give credit to nurses, doctors and more nurses, but to me delivery drivers are the unsung heroes of the pandemic. Without them, I would have had to do so many dishes.
Like, really a lot of dishes.
And thanks to delivery drivers I didn’t have to. Well done!
That’s not to say delivery people don’t annoy me any less than regular people do. Our relationship is not one based on equality and I always take on the role of Karen.
One of my pet peeves is food getting cold. Call it a primal instinct, greed, or primal greed, but once food is ready to eat there’s simply no point in postponing it. One doesn’t let food get cold. It’s spiritually ungrateful, and also I don’t like waiting.
Of course with home delivery food first needs to go places before it can fulfill its purpose and become the food. It needs to go into a big square bag and the bag then needs to. go to me.
First of all, my narcissism kicks in anytime I see a delivery driver packing a square bag with a big corporate logo that lets everybody know they’re pawns who are quite literally at the bottom of the food chain.
Second, food delivery tech behemoths dispensed the technology that allows me to track my driver (yes: my driver) in the app. It’s like watching The Maze Runner. And when my driver’s sense of direction is really poor I imagine getting a live feed of Katniss trying to escape the arena, or pacman in a universe where pacman has simultaneously become self aware and incompetent. Or any other comparison I fathom during the time I wait for my food to arrive.
And I don’t like watching the maze runner struggle when every time they take a wrong turn my food gets colder. That feeling of helplessness, when you see your food aching to find its way to you but there’s nothing you can do about, is the pain I associate with covid more than anything else. That and the realization that 1 out of 10 people gets vaccinated because they want to go see a movie instead of, you know, saving lives.
Getting food from A to My House shouldn’t be difficult. For centuries we’ve had a system where streets have names and houses have numbers. Given enough training dolphins could probably figure it out, and they’re aquatic!
It’s now gotten to the point that ordering food equals frustration. Seeing delivery drivers get lost time after time has started to weigh up against the comfort of ordering takeout.
Which is in part why I decided to start a food blog: I realized it’s not clinically nominal to shout at strangers who can’t hear you through a screen as a means to still my appetite.
As you can see, ordering takeout turns me into a raging blob of entitlement, and it always ends in regret.
Because of course my food always gets delivered eventually. And every time I finally get to see my delivery driver in person, I am so relieved my food has arrived I find the inner strength to be empathetic again.
And I thank the driver, because they’re always so friendly and humble, and they look like they’re carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.
So to honor the many food fetchers out there, this blog features a recipe for crispy fried chicken.
How to make crispy fried chicken
Ingredients: – A phone
Fun fact: Whenever my boyfriend opens the door to our delivery driver, it’s always a hot guy. Whenever I open te door to our delivery driver, it’s always an unattractive guy or a woman. I feel like that could be karma for how I shout at delivery drivers in the app.
Anyway, you grab your phone, you open a food delivery app, find the nearest KFC, order a bucket of crispy fried chicken, and then don’t check the app to see how committed your driver is to your oral cravings. If the driver takes long and you get annoyed, just think of this story from the point of view of the chicken.