I Try

To quote Billy Jack, iconic badass from the 70’s.

When I see a story about a cow actually being arrested and imprisoned for murder, I try and accept that sometimes news stories are about crime, politics, sports, and sometimes it is about arresting and imprisoning animals. Granted, it is in South Sudan, but come on.

I suppose, as ridiculous as it sounds, it is actually way more humane than just putting the animal down, which is a knee-jerk reaction that almost any parent might entertain after watching their child violently ripped apart by a mad animal. I was never even close to an encounter of the bovine variety.

I have only seen the business end of the cow, both as a chef and preparer, and as a consumer.

I try and understand what goes through peoples’ minds when they blindly follow egomaniacal despots.
No earthly.

But I try.

God’s skies were angry tonight, and we were treated to a dazzling array of lightning strikes and an incessant downpouring of rain.

Used to be, I was the guy who would try anything.

Once.

Not really gross stuff, but if it was served as food to anyone on the planet (disclaimer—no cannibalism), then I would try it.

I never thought I would like rattlesnake, but despite being a pain-in-the-ass to clean and extricate the meat from the body, it lends itself to different flavors, as evidenced by the very popular pineapple salsa I made to accompany it.

Recipe:

3 cups diced fresh pineapple

1 cup julienne tart green apple

1 minced jalapeno pepper

3 oz. lime juice

3 oz. pineapple juice

1 diced small yellow onion

½ bunch finely-chopped cilantro

½ bunch diced green onions

1 tsp. minced garlic

1 tsp. cracked black pepper

After cleaning the serpent, I would smoke the meat in a Dutch oven, stuff into large baked chile rellenos with queso blanco, bake, and place it on a bed of red and green bell pepper creams.

Money.

Twenty dollars or thereabouts. I remember I was amazed that I could get customers in Toledo, Ohio in 1990, to eat pretty much anything I prepared.

And my food wasn’t cheap.

That is major pressure, but one that any stud chef would welcome if he (or she) are worth a damn.

I try and recall the smells of a French kitchen, especially Le Patisserie.

We booked a party of corporate bigwigs for a national moving company, and I had sold my ice cutting tools long ago. But I was feeling a bit cocky, and I thought I could pull off something simple as a centerpiece for the cold seafood bar we set up for them.

I was trying to use makeshift cutting tools using some of my kitchen garnish tools, but it just wasn’t going to happen.

I ended up having one of my sous chefs “accidentally” drop the ice piece on the floor.

When news of the loss spread, the owner asked if I could “piece it together.”

Of course, you know what I said.

“I’ll try.”

Stay well.