What hubby’s cooking

I’ll never tell anybody to quit cooking for me. If I can eat it without preparing it, I’m good. When hubby wanted to take over the kitchen, I thought it would be temporary; so, I stepped back, amused. However, the man is causing me to reconsider giving up my domain. Things aren’t being put back where they belong. For example, little, long-handled tin cups are in the cabinet next to my pretty earthenware. Spices, I didn’t buy, have crowded my seasonings out of the way. He’s even buying things we already have—like an expensive cast iron griddle. “We have a griddle!” I say.

“Not like this!” he says.

So, I go to the stove pull open the drawer under the oven and take out the griddle. He didn’t even know a drawer was there! (Get Out Of My Kitchen!)

“Wow. This is a griddle. It’s better than this one,” he says, pointing to the Amazon picture.

“Relax, mommy,” says my daughter, the millennial, who when she was just 10 or 12, scolded me, “Put down that mop! Do you want Daddy to know we can mop!” Her opinion means everything to me. “Eat what you can. Leave him alone.”

He’s hopping around to all our relatives dropping off care packages of pork chops and smoked turkey breasts. I’m shaking my head now as I think of the cost and hoping they know this is a onetime thing. I’m trying to reign him in. But Chef has the purest heart, and he is enjoying his newfound calling. (He hates when I call him Chef). 

“I’ll bet you never had pork chops this good?” he says to my sister-in-law. She smiles at me over his shoulder. He is her dear big brother, and she’d never disagree with him, but she and I are excellent cooks. We learned at the knees of our mothers. And I mean knees, literally. The night before holidays, little black girls sit at the stove between our mama’s knees, getting our hair pressed. We can’t help but grow up sous chefs.

Hubby watches a lot of down south, on the back porch, bragging rights guys on YouTube. They have named themselves the Barbeque Kings, or some such. Hubby loves the cooking competitions, too. Just now one of them is telling viewers they’ll need to add 16 ounces of sour cream. Excuse me!!! (WTH) 

In addition to a butter rub, this guy injects liquid butter into the bird. Then, he’s going to cook it low, all day, so the butter melts slowly throughout the meat on a peach wood grill. When the thermometer reaches 300 degrees, add 4 more pats of butter and cover the top of the chicken with foil. In 15 minutes, spread the sweet creamy sauce(?) and slide the chicken into a box (I’m lost).

The YouTube guys give the meat a taste test: the bite went right through the crispy skin. Inside, the chicken was juicy. This is fine, first class, competition chicken. You can taste the butter.

H-E-L-P!!!