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By Karl Stevenson
During the recollection of one’s years, it is not unusual for one’s parents to fabricate their upbringing methods. According to my father he was an iconic parental figure. He would glide in from a day of work and transform into Mr. Rodgers. I was supposedly showered in picturesque “father-son time” of storytelling, board game playing, and Martha Stewart worthy dining. During all of these times that I guess I was asleep for, I will say a more realistic image would be my father grumbling while walking through the door, devouring something filled with sodium, and then passing out on the sofa. I am not trying to slander whatever my father describes as my childhood, however I would say his story may be equivalent to restaurant marketing.
Now to this day my father is still incredibly proud about his alleged Gordon Ramsay chief etiquette and five star dining. However there is this one dinner that he prepared that will forever remain in my mind. Now for a little back story I am a child of divorce and my parents have the communication skills of…of—I can’t even think of anything that can describe how nonexistent it was. My mother admitted to my father while they were dating that she has incredibly limited cooking skills, so her go to dining consisted of ready to cook lasagna or ten step recipes. Now one my mother’s favorite kitchen cheats consisted of whatever recipe recommendation that was printed on the side of a Bisquick box…which was normally baked fried chicken.
One day my father came home expecting a “home cooked” meal since my mother was home all day, and to his unimpressed surprise there was a whole lot of nothing waiting for him on a plate. So my father took it upon himself to make dinner for the evening. He thawed a few chicken legs, cleaned a pyrex pan, and dumped the rest of the Bisquick mix into a bowl, and tossed the box into the trash. My father began to ask my mother what temperature the oven should be. My mother guessed 350 Fahrenheit. My father asked how long everything should take…my mother guessed about thirty minutes. Finally my father asked if he needed any eggs or milk and my mother responded (and I quote), “I don’t know Anthony just read the box.” My father being the highly patient individual he is proceeded to just grab some eggs and milk, while ignoring any need to find the directions.
Long story short, my mother and I ordered pizza. Why you ask? Well with the combination of 2% milk, large eggs, Bisquick, and uncooked chicken my father created a new culinary entrée… partially raw chicken bathing in Salmonella soaked pancake dough, with blood oozing onto the top. My father was the only victim of his Franken-chicken which attacked his bowels and intestines a few hours later.