Post by Duke on Oct 30, 2021 2:16:33 GMT
To be fair, when I have the time, I enjoy cooking-- not like creating banquets, buffets, parties-- damn all that. I just enjoy cooking; primarily, I enjoy cooking simple "home cooking" type stuff. And yes, at my house, I am the primary cook because of this.
What I don't do a lot of is broiling. Weird, right? Well, I suspect it's mostly because I have an electric oven and I kind of hate it. At any rate, on the way home tonight, I picked up a mess of pork chops-- I know; I know: but before you just assume I made something horrible and scold me for leaping straight to pork chops just a couple of weeks after back-to-back heart surgeries, let explain:
I like them.
There.
Now that we understand each other....
I got home a bit late (not unusual; I work with idiots: "Hey, if we can meet our weekly production, we can leave early!" This is actually a standard feature of the job, at least for the guys out in the plant. When a department meets its daily production goals, that department is free to go if they so choose. Most of them keep working until the actual end of the work day, with an eye on being out the door at noon on Friday. Frankly, it's entirely possible.
It has also never actually happened. Why? Refer back to the "I work with idiots" comment above. The guys in the plant are so stoked--- every single Friday-- about leaving by noon that they don't actually get a damned thing done! No; I'm serious. They drag their feet and play and waste time and suddenly it's ten-thirty and they have pushed out maybe six of the thirty units they need push out to meet the weekly production. Then it's lunch time, and they have convinced each other that "Hey, we can still be out of here by second break!" and they get so stoked about it that they repeat the cycle from opening. Suddenly it's pushing second break and they've got _twelve_ of the thirty they needed to complete.
Ultimately, they leave later on Friday than on any other day of the week....
Does it seem harsh of me to call them idiots?
Well, let me add a couple of things: Their daily production is somewhere around forty-eight units a day during the week; it varies a bit because the goal is actually calculated square footage as opposed to actual units, but it breaks out to an average of 48 units a day. They manage to pull this off _with ease_ every single day, often hitting it at or near second break (about two hours before the end of their day). Rather than taking those two hours, they bank it to build it all up and put it on Friday. Seems like a sweet plan, right? Home by eleven AM? Who wouldn't love that?
And they do this _every_ week, and they completely blow it every single Friday, every week, forever and ever, Amen.
Morons. Idiots. I can get more accurate, but it gets way more offensive, too.
Since I can't finish my job until the hundred-odd of them and the one brain they share between them have vacated the premises, it's pretty normal for me to get home late on Friday; it's just the way things are when any part of your job depends on idiots doing theirs like they aren't idiots.
I don't have time to grill the chops, and really don't have time to fry them, as I can only get a couple in the pan at a time (and I have to feed six people). So I reluctantly break out the broiling stuff and set about my business. I don't broil much (and usually only for myself, when I'm in a hurry, as a practice kind of thing) because thus far, it never turns out right. It's not at all like the stuff my mother broiled when I was coming up, nor is it like the stuff my wife or her mother turn out when they broil, ergo I just keep my defective broiling to myself. Tonight though, everyone is going to have to suffer through my inferior broiling skills, because I am not cooking two meals!
My wife and daughter get home just about the time I am done. I hear them come home: "Ooh! Something smells good!"
"Prepare to be disappointed."
"What? That smells amazing!"
"Of course it does: it's meat."
"Wait-- why is the oven door op-- did you broil something?" she asked, in genuine surprise.
"Yes, and you will have to put up with it, because," I answered while fishing them out and putting them on a platter "they didn't turn out right. They never do. That's why I don't broil a lot-- everything comes out like this."
"Like what? They smell great!"
"Yeah; again-- it's meat. It's going to smell good."
"They look okay--"
"They won't kill you, so y'all dig in while I clean up here for a minute."
She sits down with her plate and tries a bite. "No, Duke-- I'm not kidding! These are pretty good!"
"like I said, they won't kill you."
Then the mother-in-law pops up. "Did you cook these?"
"Yes."
"These are really good. Did you grill them?"
"Didn't have time. I broiled them."
"Really?"
"Just eat; they're okay enough if you're hungry."
"Yeah, Dad; these are really _good_!"
Then the wife speaks up again. "I don't know how you did this broiling--"
"Look, I am not good with broiling, okay? Can we let it go, or are you going for take-out?"
"No; seriously-- they are _so_ tender, and I can't believe how moist they are!"
"I know! I know! I have no idea what I am doing wrong or why they never come out like yours--!"
And that's why I am posting this from the couch.
Apparently what I thought was "properly broiled"-- that which, my whole life I have associated with "broiled pork," wasn't properly broiled at all, and I'm an ass for bringing it up.
Who knew?
What I don't do a lot of is broiling. Weird, right? Well, I suspect it's mostly because I have an electric oven and I kind of hate it. At any rate, on the way home tonight, I picked up a mess of pork chops-- I know; I know: but before you just assume I made something horrible and scold me for leaping straight to pork chops just a couple of weeks after back-to-back heart surgeries, let explain:
I like them.
There.
Now that we understand each other....
I got home a bit late (not unusual; I work with idiots: "Hey, if we can meet our weekly production, we can leave early!" This is actually a standard feature of the job, at least for the guys out in the plant. When a department meets its daily production goals, that department is free to go if they so choose. Most of them keep working until the actual end of the work day, with an eye on being out the door at noon on Friday. Frankly, it's entirely possible.
It has also never actually happened. Why? Refer back to the "I work with idiots" comment above. The guys in the plant are so stoked--- every single Friday-- about leaving by noon that they don't actually get a damned thing done! No; I'm serious. They drag their feet and play and waste time and suddenly it's ten-thirty and they have pushed out maybe six of the thirty units they need push out to meet the weekly production. Then it's lunch time, and they have convinced each other that "Hey, we can still be out of here by second break!" and they get so stoked about it that they repeat the cycle from opening. Suddenly it's pushing second break and they've got _twelve_ of the thirty they needed to complete.
Ultimately, they leave later on Friday than on any other day of the week....
Does it seem harsh of me to call them idiots?
Well, let me add a couple of things: Their daily production is somewhere around forty-eight units a day during the week; it varies a bit because the goal is actually calculated square footage as opposed to actual units, but it breaks out to an average of 48 units a day. They manage to pull this off _with ease_ every single day, often hitting it at or near second break (about two hours before the end of their day). Rather than taking those two hours, they bank it to build it all up and put it on Friday. Seems like a sweet plan, right? Home by eleven AM? Who wouldn't love that?
And they do this _every_ week, and they completely blow it every single Friday, every week, forever and ever, Amen.
Morons. Idiots. I can get more accurate, but it gets way more offensive, too.
Since I can't finish my job until the hundred-odd of them and the one brain they share between them have vacated the premises, it's pretty normal for me to get home late on Friday; it's just the way things are when any part of your job depends on idiots doing theirs like they aren't idiots.
I don't have time to grill the chops, and really don't have time to fry them, as I can only get a couple in the pan at a time (and I have to feed six people). So I reluctantly break out the broiling stuff and set about my business. I don't broil much (and usually only for myself, when I'm in a hurry, as a practice kind of thing) because thus far, it never turns out right. It's not at all like the stuff my mother broiled when I was coming up, nor is it like the stuff my wife or her mother turn out when they broil, ergo I just keep my defective broiling to myself. Tonight though, everyone is going to have to suffer through my inferior broiling skills, because I am not cooking two meals!
My wife and daughter get home just about the time I am done. I hear them come home: "Ooh! Something smells good!"
"Prepare to be disappointed."
"What? That smells amazing!"
"Of course it does: it's meat."
"Wait-- why is the oven door op-- did you broil something?" she asked, in genuine surprise.
"Yes, and you will have to put up with it, because," I answered while fishing them out and putting them on a platter "they didn't turn out right. They never do. That's why I don't broil a lot-- everything comes out like this."
"Like what? They smell great!"
"Yeah; again-- it's meat. It's going to smell good."
"They look okay--"
"They won't kill you, so y'all dig in while I clean up here for a minute."
She sits down with her plate and tries a bite. "No, Duke-- I'm not kidding! These are pretty good!"
"like I said, they won't kill you."
Then the mother-in-law pops up. "Did you cook these?"
"Yes."
"These are really good. Did you grill them?"
"Didn't have time. I broiled them."
"Really?"
"Just eat; they're okay enough if you're hungry."
"Yeah, Dad; these are really _good_!"
Then the wife speaks up again. "I don't know how you did this broiling--"
"Look, I am not good with broiling, okay? Can we let it go, or are you going for take-out?"
"No; seriously-- they are _so_ tender, and I can't believe how moist they are!"
"I know! I know! I have no idea what I am doing wrong or why they never come out like yours--!"
And that's why I am posting this from the couch.
Apparently what I thought was "properly broiled"-- that which, my whole life I have associated with "broiled pork," wasn't properly broiled at all, and I'm an ass for bringing it up.
Who knew?