With all this great holiday cooking coming up, I’d like to give you a glimpse of what it’s like to have me as a moderately unhelpful sous chef.
Anytime Lindsay cooks with sausage or a phallic shaped meat product my inner 14-year old boy comes out. “Tube Steak”, “Protein Pole”, and “Haha, that looks like a penis” are all things that I have uttered while watching Lindsay handle sausages. When she cooks with Chorizo I do a very bad Mexican accent and say things like, “Heeeey Senorita, I like da way yoo work chor spicy love wand. Aye, aye, aye!” This normally induces an eye-roll from Lindsay and I’m sure her inner voice is screaming,
“How did you get talked into this relationship?!”
When we cook with southern style breakfast sausage, I’m likely to say, “Hey, that looks like a little porn star that’s been caught in a house fire.” I crack up laughing, and occasionally so does Lindsay. However, her inner 70 year old comes out too and remembers that positive reinforcement of my sophomoric humor will only fan the flames of my filth.