"Whatcha makin' kid?" I ask.
"Chocolate pancakes," she says.
"Good on ya!" I say, then putter around with chores as she measures and sifts, melts and mixes. Cocoa, flour, milk, butter. Everything's humming along until she consults the open cookbook and her brow crinkles.
She's picks up the book and recites, "Beat until the peaks are stiff but not dry then fold into the batter: 2 large egg whites." She looks up at me, perplexed.
I exhale, think of getting out the beater and fooling around showing her how to separate the eggs and do I really want to hassle with this? Why did the kid have to pick such a pain in the ass recipe ...
Then images of prepackaged sauce mixes, boxed dinners and frozen pizzas fill my head and push away the grouch.
"Kid," I say, "that recipe is NOT candy ass. Now get two eggs and a small clean bowl."
* * *
French coffee presses are not candy ass.
Cast iron cookware is totally not candy ass.
Anything that starts with a roux? Not candy ass.
My K4-B KitchenAid mixer, which was manufactured in Troy, Ohio by Hobart in the late 1940s and weighs 23 pounds, is so not candy ass, it redefines not candy ass.
Pasta made from scratch is not candy ass, then it's more not candy ass.
Mortar and pestle: you make an aioli with a mortar and pestle? You just made an emulsion by hand. That is not candy ass.
A Chinois is not candy ass and a mandoline is not candy ass.
Making your own stock from bones, carcasses and shit like bay leaves is not candy ass.
Sriracha sauce is not candy ass.
Souffles are probably not candy ass, but I'm not sure because I never made one.
A jar of rendered bacon fat in the fridge Is. Not. Candy. Ass.
Knowing what is and what is not candy ass in the kitchen is not candy ass.
* * *