I should really stop watching cooking shows on TV. They put bad thoughts in my head -- specifically, the thought that I can cook.
When the pandemic was in full swing, I reached a phase where if I didn't find a new hobby, I was gonna lose it. Somehow I settled on teaching myself how to cook. This was partially born out of boredom and partially out of necessity -- let's be honest, there's only so many times you can ask Instacart to bring you Lunchables and frozen pizza before they start judging you. Perhaps that stove thingamajig in the kitchen served more than an ornamental, decorative purpose?
I broke out some cookbooks. I bought an air fryer and an InstantPot. I've watched so many Youtube videos that my "Recommended" feed thinks I'm a master chef. It's been a couple years now, and while I'm far from a culinary genius, I CAN make a handful of meals that aren't entirely terrible. I've even made a couple things I'm not ashamed to share with friends.
That brings us to last week. Have you seen the series on HBO Max where celebrity chefs teach recipes to pop icon Selena Gomez? She and I appear to be roughly at the same skill level in the kitchen, so I've been strangely entertained by the show. One recipe in particular looked like something I might be able to pull off. The guest that week was Kwame Onwuachi, who I'd rooted for on Top Chef. True to form, he spent much of the episode unashamedly trying (and succeeding!) at getting Selena's digits. But somewhere in-between the flirting, the meal they made looked fabolous. Onwuachi called it "Sunday supper" -- chicken and rice stewed with obe ata dindin, Nigeria's red mother sauce that you simmer all day long.
I can cook chicken. I can cook rice. I think I'm capable of simmering. This should be no problem, right? Labor Day was the first opportunity I had to spend a whole afternoon in the kitchen, so I thought I'd give it a shot.
The hardest part was procuring the ingredients. My neighborhood grocery doesn't stock Scotch bonnet peppers, Jamaican curry powder, or whatever "Maggi cubes" are. Thankfully, the World Food Market in East Moline had everything I needed, except for perhaps Pepto-Bismol once my Midwestern gastrointestinal tract got a load of this stuff. Ingredients in hand, I headed to the kitchen.
1:30 p.m. I have diced tomatoes, onions, and peppers. With steady gloved hands, I carefully added the Scotch bonnet pepper and curry powder as if handling uranium. Then, in an attempt to ward myself of both vampires AND any girl who might ever want to kiss me ever again, FOURTEEN cloves of garlic. Blend until smooth.
2:00 p.m. I'm pretty sure "Maggi cubes" are just bouillon, but I don't read Arabic and there isn't a bit of English on this packaging. I'm supposed to add EIGHT of them -- but I'd also like to make it to dessert without having a stroke, and I reckon that's a LOT of salt. Weirder yet, I just found ANOTHER video where Chef Kwame makes the SAME dish but only uses TWO of those cubes, so what do I do? Even WEIRDER, in his videos, the Maggi cubes are square. When I opened MINE, they were rectangular. Does this mean they're more potent? I had no idea how to tell, so I randomly chucked three of them in and hoped for the best.
2:30 p.m. The sauce has been simmering an hour, so let's taste. Wow, it's surprisingly delicious and not too spicy.
4:00 p.m. Another taste test. Mmmm, it's... THE SPICIEST THING I'VE EVER PUT INTO MY MOUTH. Like, we're talking face-flushed, run-for-the-milk, Scotch-bonnets-should-be-outlawed kinda heat. Uh oh. I'm worried Kwame lied when he said, "It's just the right amount of heat." The right amount to put you in a coma, maybe.
4:30 p.m. I am now searing chicken in a Dutch oven. Searing is the technical term for when you attempt to brown the chicken but instead burn all your arm hairs off with oil splatters. Note to self: when this is over, find a less painful hobby.
5:00 p.m. Friends have arrived. The verdict is that "it smells good." I worry they're smelling cinged arm hair. Cooking oil is EVERYWHERE. My friend suggests I buy a splatter guard, which reminds me that I own one. Duh.
5:15 p.m. My friend tries to help clean up the oil splatter on the kitchen floor with a paper towel. Instead, it turns my kitchen into a well-polished skating rink that even my cats can't get a good footing on.
5:30 p.m. I have added the sauce to both the chicken and the rice and we're in the stewing phase. My friends say they're hungry. I promise nothing and remind them I have the number to Pizza Hut on speed dial.
5:45 p.m. Chef Kwame suggests deep-fried plantains as a side dish. I'm fresh out of arm hair, so I opt to throw them into the air fryer.
6:00 p.m. Everything finishes cooking at the same time as if I know what I'm doing. Weirder yet, it all looks and tastes AMAZING. As promised, it's not too spicy (I must've had a pepper seed in that earlier taste-test.) My friends are duly impressed. I am a culinary master. Also, I am never doing this again.
All told, it was a pretty satisfying meal -- and all I had to sacrifice was six hours of prep, two hours of clean-up, much of my dignity, a t-shirt that will never be white again, and most of my arm hair.
Worth it. Now somebody come up with an InstantPot version so I don't have to work so hard next time.
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