Quote:
Originally Posted by DwnWthVwls
I believe this. That lady creeps me the **** out.
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I still want her to adopt me, though.
In terms of famous chefs, I've always considered Chris Kimball to be the creepiest, especially after reading
this hilarious and vaguely unsettling series that was inspired by his rambling folksy letters in his magazine on my old favorite blog:
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Today’s a happy day, readers. Today I’m marrying the assistant girl, which marks the beginning of spring. Every fall I shed my old assistant-wife, and every spring I marry the new one. It’s an old Vermont custom – as old as sinking your mother into a vat of fresh-churned butter and storing her in the jam-cellar for freshness – and it makes for a good harvest. I’ve spent many a lonely winter camped on top of Briar Mountain aiming perfectly hard-boiled eggs (p. 16; the secret is to use a steamer basket) at anyone who dares to mention the phrase “property taxes” to me, and it’s time to turn my fancy to thoughts of love once more. The only tax I’ll ever pay is the wagonload of – never you mind what’s in that wagon, stranger – I deliver to Old Henry every year on the night of the Turnabout Moon. And you can count on that just as surely as you can count on my recipe for salt-cured country ham (p. 20, the secret is tightly controlled fury and low heat).
What can you do with an old assistant-wife after she’s finished? Well, friends, here in Vermont you can trade her to the first stranger you meet at a crossroads for a sack of molasses sugar and a witch-glass. Or you can wall her alive in the orchard; the next year’s crop of apples will be small and bitter, but every year thereafter, they’ll be crisp and fresh and red and white as you could possibly please. She also makes an excellent substitute for buttermilk, if you haven’t any to hand.
Do you know why they call them long johns? I do. I do. But I won’t tell, not for any price. I can’t tell. Only two men under the moon know the promise I made thirteen steps from the graveyard all those years ago to learn it, and neither of us are telling.
If a man eats a cow tongue, he has two tongues in his mouth. That’s Vermont, all right. Pickle a cow tongue and your basement’s whiskey still won’t ever run dry.
A man who’s willing to fight a three-legged pointer dog on a hot duck-hunting afternoon is a man I’d be proud to invite to my campfire for a fistful of Johnnycakes.
Hasn’t been a recipe yet that will get blood out of the mill-stone hanging over my front door. It casts a shadow over my eyes every time I walk outside. That’ll be the stone that kills me, mark my words. I just hope I manage to finish collecting enough hen of the woods mushrooms to make my quick skillet beef stroganoff (p. 37) before it drops onto this wicked, wicked head.
If you can swallow an oyster, you can swallow a man’s heart.
A well-cooked pork chop is every bit as important as a childhood. Who decided that nonfat Greek yogurt was mandatory in $250 restaurants? Why can’t a man hunt New Hampshiremen that swarm across the Old Wall in his own backyard? My own mother used to leave me for dead at the base of a powerful waterfall every morning with only a curse and her spit in my eye to guide me back home, and I’m seven feet tall as a result of it.
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(..this is pretty much exactly how the horror stories I write tend to go, actually. Except mine are bad, obviously)