The Martha Files

The Martha Files

an Excerpt from my Forthcoming Book

(with a bit from Dave Barry to whom, of course, I will give due credit and probably all my royalties.)
***

My husband is insane. As I write this the rain is
pouring outside. I know that is really bad grammar. The grammar police have caught wind of me already and are planning a swat
attack on my mobile home.

How, you may ask, can rain perform the act of pour? What is the rain pouring?
Well, you figure it out.

So, the rain is pounding fists on my roof and hosing its wang on the lawn and my husband, the insane creature, is going to go golfing. He has become an addict.

But this not about any of that. This is about the
weather being perfect for barbecuing.

I, yes I, the wench born without the genetic female wiring that enables one to cook eggs Benedict at age eight, as all properly designed females are, (or so I heard) --
I am learning to barbecue.

To date I have started the barbecue three times and cooked with great success the following:

1. Jerked Chicken
2. London Boils
3. Somewhat Steaks

I am pretty proud of this, being well aware that
barbecuing belongs to men as mascara belongs to women.

But my Juanny(John), is truly a born again man. He has taught me eloquently, without fear of being surpassed in his maleness, how to barbecue.
Here is his oh-so-friggin'-complicated course on
barbecuing:

JOHN'S BARBECUE PRIMER

1. Put the coals in the barbecue. Take them out of the bag first.
2. Make a little mountain out of them.
3. Douse generously with lighter fluid.
4. Light a match and throw it on there from a good
distance and get the hell out of dodge. Don't fart
anywhere near this flame.
5. After awhile, shake the coals so the mountain is leveled.
6. When the coals are white-ish throw your stuff on the grill.
7. Wreck dinner.

This is pretty easy after you get the hang of it.
(Especially step 7.)

I am trying to learn to cook in general. I get a lot of recipes off the internet and experiment. Fortunately John will eat anything. Where I am going with all this is why, oh why do the
people in power have to make it so hard?
It’s not really, but how many times have you been
bamboozled by say, “the zest of one lemon,” or “a two-quart saucepan,” a “spatula,” a “13
by 9” pan,” ??????

Okay all you home ec freaks, just get over yourselves. You think it’s all so easy, because you figured it out or someone who figured it out for you told you all about it at just the right age so you just automatically know what a soofle (souffle) is.

Not to mention “Cream of Tartar.”

While I was busy playing softball you were earning
your girl scout badges. So, while I knew in the 4th grade what a triple play was, you knew all about de-glazing your saucepan. For those of you who knew both at say, age 11, I am still worried for you.

Well, it is still raining hell outside and John is now watching golf on TV and making little whimpering sounds . . .

Okay, I will admit this right now, so you can all have a good and righteous laugh at me.(I don’t care. The angels were laughing when I was born, so I’m used to it.) Here’s how stupid I was when it came to cooking:

HOW STUPID I WAS

In order to figure out what a 13 X 9-inch pan was I had to get out my measuring tape and measure the damn thing, because I, being generally cuisine art-malgifted, cannot tell 13 X 9 inches just by looking at it.

We never had a spatula in the Cruz household. We had a “pancake turner.”

In order to figure out what a 2 quart sauce pan was, I had to get out a pan and then taking my Pyrex measuring cup, fill it with water and pour it in the pan until I had poured what I thought was 2 quarts of water (having to refer to my 8th grade math book because I cannot remember how many pints make a quart) into the pan in order to figure out what a 2 quart sauce pan
looked like. Mopping up later, I realized I did not have one.

Me: Dr. Jenkins?

Dr. Jenkins, my dentist: Yes, my dear.

Me: Could you save some of the tartar you’re scraping off my teeth?

Dr. Jenkins: What?

Me: I want to save it and make cream out of it.


I can remember my home ec “teacher” shaking her head pathetically at me on a daily basis. Gee, I hope that made you feel good Mrs. Kuhn! You made me feel like a Giant Turd Flambe! Do ya think ya might have buckled down and TAUGHT ME SOMETHING?????

I am STILL waiting around for the lemon, perched on my counter to start laughing, so I can collect his entire “zest” and throw it in the stew.
*************

Okay I have calmed down now.

So I’m at Ikea looking at their cookware trying to buy a 2 quart saucepan. Do you think they etch the words 2 quart on their pans?

No.

Do you think they imprint the words 2-quart on a Pyrex mixing bowl?

No.

Do you think they etch the numbers 13 X 9 on a baking pan?

No.

You would think that since pots and pans masters can charge anywhere from $90 to $16,534.56 dollars for their products, they could afford to etch a couple of words on there somewhere. For that price they should render an entire Stephen King novel.

If there is packaging, you might be in luck, but once the packaging is off, how do you remember?

I realize you are all now peeing your pants laughing at me, because I NEED these little pointers to survive life. Quite frankly, I think this is all a conspiracy to make females feel like morons when it comes to cooking arts. And I am sitting here wondering what my point is.

Who cares?

The point is not important.
Dave Barry’s Tangy Barbecue Sauce is.

Here is his recipe:
*deleted due to copyright restrictions


(I tip my hat to Dave Barry as my Mentor when it comes to just about everything. I have noticed a certain similarity in our thought processes, although I would not preclude that I am anywhere near the genius he is. However, he did steal an idea from me for one of his books; mainly, the book about really rotten lyrics to rocknroll songs, etc. Dave, you beat me to it, damn you!)

On the plus side, Dave Barry never heard this entirely true barbecuing story told to me by my friend Angel.

I think we are all well aware that barbecuing is a
“male” issue. Certain members of the male family take it very seriously and feel they are Masters.
It makes no difference if they have tanked an entire rack of Moosepiss beer. This only makes them more masterful.

TRUE BARBECUE STORY
One day a group of guys got together to barbecue.
Guzzling swill and swaggering about the grill, they waited for the coals to get hot.

Guy 1: Are the coals hot enough yet?

Guy 2: Lemmesee. Huh, I don’t think so.

Guy 1: I dunno, they look pretty hot to me.

Guy 2: (poking at the coals) Huh.

Guy 3: (staggering up to the grill) Whasssssup.
(sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

Guy 1: We’re trying to figure out if the coals are hot enough.

Guy 2: Don’t think so.

Guy 1: I think they are.

Guy 3: (sizing up the situation) Oh, that ain’t hot. No way it's near hot enough.

Guy 1: The embers are glowing!

Guy 3: (sneering) It ain’t even near gettin’ hot.
He unzips his pants and whips out his “member.”

Guy 3: Here, I’ll show ya. (He slaps it on the grill.)
****

The way I heard it, they had to use a Spatula to
scrape it off, Deglazing the bits of charred
wangflesh from the grill.