Cooking Drunk

A sure-fire way to get the “break” you deserve.

In my household, I do most of the cooking. This mystifies me as I’m not very good at it. My husband’s an excellent cook (his baked chicken is the bomb) but, in the cleanup department, I reign.

My OCD turns me into a freakin’ banshee if things aren’t done the way I like them, so, to keep things chill, when mealtime rolls around, I do it all — prep, prepare, clean up.

Oh, my hubby attempts to keep things tidy, but I like things done my way. Poor guy. I don’t know how he puts up with me.

The women I know are into the “clean as you go” thing. Men, not so much. They’re perfectly content to have a shit-load of greasy pots, pans and dishes sitting in the sink waiting for “someone” to magically make them disappear.

Although I am opening myself up to all kinds of ridicule for the following revelations, think of them as a “public service.” If you need a break, a respite from kitchen duty…if you’re sick of doing all the cooking in your household, here’s a tip: Give Cooking Drunk a try. Just make sure you have a responsible adult handy to deter any potential disasters. You don’t want to blow up your house, after all. You just want a little…time off.

And this is key: Make sure you have some heavy-duty, oven mitts on hand unless you think the burn scars from a hot grate are a badge of honor.

To be fair, I don’t cook dinner every night. In fact, I don’t cook much at all, anymore. I remember the early years of our marriage when I would pore over cookbooks with a ferocious glee, marking the most interesting and/or exotic recipes with torn-up Post-It notes. I was so ambitious!

As I soon realized my limitations on the cooking front, my ambition waned. I did attempt to replicate many of those recipes. Some worked; most of them didn’t.

The recipes that flopped often failed because I was sampling the Cabernet or Merlot or whatever wine was on hand while I roasted, baked, boiled and braised my way to yet another colossal bomb.

Oh, yeah. Through the years, I’ve committed some massive kitchen crimes for the sake of “culinary exploration.” And, as implied, many if not most of these experiments were conducted while imbibing. Shocking, I know.

The Meat Loaf That Took Over Chicago, for example. Back then, I was still eating meat and, as usual, bought enough beef for not just myself and my hubby, but for the whole neighborhood — fire department, included. I don’t remember the exact poundage but we’re talkin’ a beast!

I sipped a little/a lot of red vino while I was mixing and mashing and molding and the thing took on a life of its own. It just got bigger and bigger. A gargantuan tumor of a loaf. I was both excited and repelled. Kind of like when you’re attracted to someone who is ugly, yet sexy. You wouldn’t mind fucking them, but the thought makes your stomach turn.

My husband was aghast when he saw what was for dinner — for the next year. We even took pictures. Fortunately for you, I can’t find them. The last thing I want is for my food to be the stuff of your nightmares.

I wish I could tell you how the meat loaf tasted. I think we were afraid to bite into it — that’s how intimidating it looked. As if it would bite back.

That particular dish will definitely go down as one of my biggest gastronomic fiascos, but, because I have to fuck up numerous times before I get it, there have been others, folks. So many others.

When I moved on to taking little sips of vodka while I cooked — and no, I am not an alcoholic —

— the shit really hit the pan. Literally. Chicken so dry it crackled. And not in a good way. Burnt veggies. Undercooked pasta. Overcooked pasta. Steaks that cried “uncle!”

Now, lest you think I should seek professional help for my unprofessional behavior, let me say that I’ve turned over a new leaf. Sort of. I don’t attempt recipes that I know I’ll fuck up, or that my husband won’t like.

I don’t eat meat any more and my husband has cut way back, so I try to keep things simple and healthy. But, because I’m not a saint, I do backtrack every now and then.

Take the other night. Yes. That recent. I was making Fettuccine Aglio E Olio, which is basically fettuccine with garlic and olive oil. As simple as it gets.

Now here’s where I screwed up: My husband was enjoying a gin and tonic. He loves gin but rarely drinks it these days. I thought it would be nice to have a little “taste” to “mellow me out,” as I have anxiety issues.

So I asked if I could have a little bit. He looked doubtful, but because he’s a sweetheart, he didn’t put up a fight.

So I sipped some gin, straight mind you, while boiling the fettuccine. I stirred and I sipped. So far, so good. I didn’t look at the box to check the cooking time. Hey. I’ve been cooking pasta long enough to know when it’s done for chrissake.

Well, that’s a baldfaced lie because I didn’t know. I tasted a strand, thought it was pretty good and dumped the whole mess into a colander.

When I served it to my long-suffering spouse, the noodles were stuck together like they’d been doused with Gorilla Glue. That’s how undercooked they were. And, inedible.

I was shamefaced. But last night, I made the dish again and this time it was perfect.

Time for me to toe the line for a while. But, since you probably have a lot more self-control than I do, if you want a break from the culinary grind, if you want to be the one who’s being served for a change, give cooking drunk a shot. You’ll be on the sofa binging on Netflix so fast your head will spin.

And remember: No less than legendary chef Julia Child said:

“I enjoy cooking with wine. Sometimes I even put it in the food.”

Just be careful. Okay?

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

Thanks for reading, guys. If you like this, please check out some of my other stories and follow my publication, Rogues’ Gallery.