Chef had a Hostess wedding cake. I’m not lying. Why would I lie about that? Which part of my brain would I utilize in making that story up out of thin air? It’s not like I’ve had a lot of Hostess cakes in my life. You could count the number of Hostess items I’ve had in my LIFETIME on one hand. I think my mom thought they were the devil’s business, and in retrospect, she was right. I can think of less fattening ways to embalm myself. But the IDEA of a snack cake is just awesome. And the Twinkie character looks like an effing banana, and if anyone wants to tell me otherwise they can stuff it. I guarantee that you could show a picture of that “Twinkie” in a cowboy hat to any foreigner in the world who had never heard of Hostess, and he or she would say “banana!” Actually, first they’d probably say “Leave, white devil.” But I’m fairly confident their next few sentences would include the word “banana.”
The point is that Chef had a Hostess wedding cake. It was basically a wedding cake shape that was covered in Hohos and Dingdongs and Twinkies, and whatever other cute little euphemisms one would find in homosexual male porn, since that appears to be their main source of naming ideas. Not that there’s anything wrong with gay porn. I have a feeling I’d like it more than the regular kind, which I’ve always thought was a little bit tasteless because if I want to watch unattractive people doing it, I’ll just keep a close eye on the extracurricular activities of most senate republicans (motto: it’s okay because it’s YOUR DOG).
So I’m making Twinkies from scratch right now. I’ll post pictures tomorrow. They’re going to be tasty. And they’re made out of a series of “ingredients” rather than an intricate matrix of preservatives and styrofoam products. Good for them.
In other news of things that I could buy in the store but instead elect to make from scratch like a primitive hunter-gatherer with access to ancient Wikipedia, I made sausages yesterday. From scratch. I even ground my own meat, and rinsed my own…casings. This was less distasteful than I thought it would be, and was more like making a condom water balloon than anything anatomy-like. Don’t judge me, you know you’ve made condom water balloons. Liar.
The sausage stuffing motion is really more what one would call a “stroke.” I’m not trying to be dirty or anything, just to point out to you that perhaps 8th grade boys would excel at sausage-mongering. I’m not super sure what I put in my sausage, but I know it had something to do with paprika, cayenne, pork, pork fat, sage, chives, garlic, and onion granules. And salt. And pepper, obviously.
Sausage-making equipment has to be really cold when you grind the meat and stuff the sausages themselves. Like, if you could have the Queen of Narnia touching the pieces to keep them frozen, that’d be super. An ideal sausage-making team would be the Queen of Narnia and an eighth grade boy. Except he’d likely get distracted from the sausages by attempting to have sex with the Queen (her being vaguely female and all). If it’s not cold enough, all the meat kind of coagulates into a pinkish paste, and then you have to say the F-word a whole bunch of times and throw it away and start over. At least, that’s what I did and it worked out well.
Also, when the meat mixture is being stuffed into the casings, pushing the meat-plunger (hahahahahaha!) too fast makes air bubbles (when will this hilarity end?). If you get an air bubble, it’s best to yell at Chris for pushing the plunger too hard. Again, there may be other methods, but this method worked quite well for me. If you do not have a Chris to yell at, you may yell at the 8th grader. The Queen would be a poor choice for receiving your criticism, on account of her ability to turn people to stone.
Eventually, we turned out some solidly delicious sausages. We tossed both rigatoni and penne in a simple marinara, shaved some parmesan over the top, tumbled some sliced sausages over the party, and then fried a piece of homemade sourdough in the sausage drippings. Mmmmmmm. Sausagey deliciousness.
Try not to think bad things about me for using two different kinds of pasta for the starch. You and I both know perfectly well that two people eat exactly two-thirds of a box of pasta. Meaning that at any given time I have 14 boxes that are one-third full of pasta. This isn’t enough to do anything but sit in the pantry and openly mock me. But then if I throw it away, I feel all guilty for the starving children in Milan who can barely afford their Gucci handbags, let alone dried pasta. So occasionally we have mixed-race pasta, and I’m okay with that. I’d suggest you become more forward thinking.