79 Chef Madden Rankings - Numbers Don't Lie

Key Highlights:

Elias (worst chef): 50.18

·      Cooking Knowledge - 28 - Kid cooks a pasta dish or makes Trader Joe’s easy to cook meals.

·      Creativity - 14 - Literally no variety or inspiration, just the same pasta dish every time.

·      General Awareness - 2 - “Yeah I can talk on the phone now.” - Elias, in a room with 4 other people and the TV on.

·      Use of Primary Sources - 97 - Elias’ strongest (maybe weakest?) point - he very effectively asks people how to do everything.

·      Durability - 23 - A rib injury has kept him out of yoga for almost a month now. Squid.

Josh (4^th place); 58.35

·      Willingness to Cook - 2 - pretty self-explanatory, will  do anything to avoid cooking, including splitting food with Robby so he cooks it for him.

·      Cooking Knowledge - 9 - Nowhere to go but up. Jadler hits a ceiling at complicated foods such as tortellini and western omelettes.

·      Microwave Ability - 98 - He really just blows away the competition here (besides DH), with an uncanny ability to make almost anything in the microwave, including but not limited to lean pockets, beans, and bagels.

·      Cook Speed - 95 - Directly related to his microwave ability, Jadler’s longest cook time might be however long it takes to make rice - but he’s usually done in under 5 minutes with everything else anyways.

Nick (T-2^nd place): 74.35

·      Creativity - 97 - Dickhole will throw literally anything into the croc-pot or a”salad” with no regard for convention or past precedents.

·      Microwave Ability - 94 - Second only to Jadler, kid knows how to get a quick meal out the microwave.

·      Ordering Take Out Skills - 99 - Literally no one has more experience than Nick at this. Again, his disregard for widely accepted conventions really helps him here, such as the 11 am Chinese food order or the calzone order at literally anytime of the day.

·      Use of Primary Sources - 0 - Call it pride, call it apathy, but Nick never asks for anyone’s help or opinion. Can be heard yelling, “I don’t need this!” when unsolicited advice is offered.

Robby (T-2^nd place): 74.35

·      Potential - 95 - The flashes of brilliance that Robby has shown and his family’s remarkable prowess make the sky the limit for Bobby.

·      Cooking Knowledge - 93 - Knows when and how to use things such as olive oil and online recipes.

·      Willingness to Clean Dishes - 2 - “I have no issue cleaning other parts of the house, I just don’t like dishes.”

·      Flick Huck - 90 - He just throws dimes, although his backhand huck is much better.

Gene (1^st place): 81.24

·      Willingness to Cook - 96 - Gene loves the satisfaction of making dinner, whether for himself or for friends. Gene is Taylor’s role model in the kitchen.

·      Willingness to Clean Dishes - 93 - Nothing Gene hates more than dirty dishes, especially when no one cleans the pots. But Gene aggressively washes his dishes his immediately.

·      Microwave Ability - 65 - Barely scraping by with a passing grade, Gene believes in things such as the “oven” or “cooking things on the stove.”

·      Food Stores in Case of Emergency - 14 - Just a barren shelf of perishable goods. Elias has plenty of pasta and bread products for the long haul, Jadler has frozen goods and Hurricane Sandy worthy quantities of knock-off Frosted Mini-Wheats, Nick has a freezer full of meat and Robby has enough Wheat Thins to last at least a week.

Fridge Conflicts Abound

We assembled a crack squad of me, Nick, and Elias and made a rousing trip to Trader Joe’s. Thing is, when you buy groceries, you have to then put those groceries away. Naturally, Elias decided that his “space” was occupied, so he moved some mystery Ziploc containers to a different section of the fridge. Predictably, this was Gene’s, and his return home after a long day of work and going to a concert was met with the distress that can only come from hidden groceries or an unplanned pregnancy.

• “Who the fuck does he think he is?”
• “Does he think he owns the fridge?”
• “I’m going to put this shit on his bed.”

Luckily, Robby and I were here to witness this sleep deprivation-inspired meltdown and have the perfect forum to document it.

But seriously, Elias come home, there is garlic bread dough rising in your pillow case. 

From Nick Adolph’s Cookbook: Chil-Bo (Chili/Gumbo Fusion)

Background: Great recipes are born when Big Daddy Necessity takes Mama Opportunity out for a night on the town, gets her drunk, then seduces her back to his room to watch “Fern Gully.” I heard some serious bed-squeaking going on in my Croc-Pot last night, so I knew that today would birth a glorious recipe (don’t worry about how pregnancy works in this ridiculous abstract world I’ve created. This isn’t fucking “Inception.” I wrote this post in 10 minutes because I was bored. Deal with it). Anywho, I had a monstrous can of red beans that I wanted to cook up so I invented this recipe. Enjoy!

Ingredients:

1 large can of red beans. I’d say around 24 ounces, but larger works too. You could also get two small cans if you don’t understand economies of scale.

½ a can of corn (I would estimate this at around 1 ear of corn)

3 sausages, any type. I used spicy chicken, I would imagine kielbasa could also taste good.

2 red peppers

2 cloves of garlic. I would have used more but I was stealing them from Robby and felt bad taking more.

2 sweet onions.

Spices
I don’t claim to be a food expert. You can really throw anything in. Here’s what I used. I don’t have quantities because I don’t measure – I cook on raw instinct and talent. My kitchen presence is a whirlwind of raw emotion and profanity.  

Thyme

Salt

Oregano

Chili Powder

Paprika

BBQ Sauce

Cumin

I also would have used Cajun seasoning, but we didn’t have any.

Directions:

Seriously? You need directions? If something’s too big, chop it up. If it’s too small, you’re screwed. If it’s the right size, toss it in. If it’s a spice, dump it in. Don’t worry about cutting yourself, because chicks dig scars/ moody guys with dark pasts.

Serving Instructions:

Serve in a bowl with a side of sliced ciabatta. Garnish with parsley. Goes well with a dry white wine. Just kidding, eat it straight of the Croc-Pot. No dishes and you won’t seem like a pretentious douche. Enjoy!

Thanksgiving Fridge Clean

Found in the depths of our fridge as we clean before Thanksgiving break. Really brings up two important questions: What exactly is that disgusting creation? And secondly, which is worse, the bag itself or Elias' hair half done in corn rows?

Happy Turkey Week! 

Love,

Breadie, Jadler and Robby

The Tortured Cry of a Boca Grande Enthusiast

This post can only start with one statement. I love taquerias. Yes, I know love is a strong word. This is love. This is not what you feel when you sit in the back row of Ec 5 and stare at the girl playing on her iPhone. This is not what happens when you go on a couple of dates and start sending each other flirty texts. I am in a passionate affair with the glorious, semi-authentic creations of these unassuming holes in the wall. This is some Casablanca-esque, earth-shattering, re-imagine your whole existence business. I speak strongly because I care. I care oh, so much.

With that on the table, I have a bone to pick with Tufts students, Cambridge residents and that dude who runs Boston Tweet. Anna's is not as good as you all think. Now, before you get out your Pitchforks and give me a 0.0, allow me to qualify this statement. I will go to Anna's. Hell, I'd say that I really like Anna's. BUT, everyone who insists that Anna's is the Michael Jordan of speedy taquerias can get their idol worshipping jig out of my face. The portions are admirable, the chicken tastes just like the carnitas and they will put a fresh avocado in your burrito for the price of your first born child. If we're talking real quality this side of the river, though, I'm all about Boca Grande. This has incurred about as much hatred from my friends and acquaintances as if I'd personally put tacks in all their breakfast cereal. Alas, I live on to make this impassioned argument.

The first redeeming factor about Boca is their meat variety. Rather than that one dry chicken flavor (don't even mention that chicken ranchero crap, I'm doing a favor by leaving that out) that Anna's leaves in a sauna for 4 hours prior to selling, Boca has multiple delicious varieties of chicken. If I'm feeling like pineapple chicken, boom. Maybe I'm craving lemon chicken in my burrito. The number of choices is allows me to fit my experience to my preference much like old folks can choose their retirement home in the Florida city that gives that wonderful restaurant its name.

The tamale though, is Boca's masterpiece. Those torpedos of deliciousness are something that probably keeps the owners of Anna's up at night crying and shaking. At the conclusion of his hunger strike opposing British colonialism in India, Gandhi demanded 8 chicken tamales from Boca to bring him back to full strength. Rumor has it he was deadlifting 250 that afternoon. Discovering the tamales at Boca after years of microwaving the Trader Joe's version was a revelation. It's like I had been blind, then starting seeing in black and white when I had those Trader Joe's packs. Finally, my miraculous recovery concluded with my first Boca Grande tamale and now I see in color. Being a medical miracle is sweet.

There are plenty of arguments against Boca. It's not in Davis Square. It's a little more expensive. It takes a couple of minutes to heat up the tamales. I say boo-hoo to all of these. My love for this place is never ending. I've had to be physically restrained from standing outside the shop with a boombox playing Peter Gabriel while I wait for it to open in the morning. Now that I think about it if I haven't convinced you to try it, I honestly don't care. I pen these words in the spirit of Phillip Sidney when he wrote Astrophil and Stella. My representation of this glorious yet tortured love affair is an affirmation to myself that I fully understand its meaning. Ye old reader can emulate my action and live by this scripture, but you will never feel what I feel for burritos and tamales from Boca Grande. Suckers.

Foodmaster: An Obituary

The Somerville population was recently dealt a crippling blow with the news that the beloved Johnnie’s Foodmaster would soon be closing. Foodmaster was more than just a grocery store. It was a place for the community to come together. A cool, safe place for children to hang out at after school instead of experimenting with drugs. A place where 79 Ossipee guys could buy cheap alcohol and take it home to experiment with.

Foodmaster was the diamond in the rough of area grocery stores. It didn’t pretend to be better than it was, like Shaw’s. It didn’t try to solicit me with Hawaiian shirts and admittedly delicious free samples, like Trader Joe’s. And it certainly didn’t convince me to eat weird organic shit, like Whole Foods (No thanks, the only chia seeds I’ll be buying are gonna be filling in bald spots on my Elmer Fudd Chia Pet).

Foodmaster gave me exactly what I expected from a grocery store located just feet from the Projects. Cheap-ass food. More cheap-ass food. Lottery kiosk all up in your face as you walk in. 4:1 knockoff brand to real brand ratio. Refrigerated meats. They had it all.

The organization was a class act. These employees lived and breathed Foodmaster. Unworldly commitment. Never before have I seen grocery-baggers who would follow you out to your car to make sure that you didn’t steal the shopping cart (Yo, chill, I need this for the hurricane). They also weren’t hesitant to put you in your goddamn place if you wasted their time. If you bothered them with a stupid question like “where is the brown sugar”, damn right they’d either respond with a random aisle number between 1 and 12 or direct your ass to the baby-care section.

Last week, I returned one last time to pay my respects. I entered Foodmaster that day with a few bucks and a heavy heart. I left with some 50%-off whoopie pies. But more importantly, I left frightened of the future. Like the baby fox, Todd, in The Fox and the Hound when his mother dies and he is left alone. An orphan in a frightening world. Foodmaster, you had my heart when your ‘D’ light lost power and you became Foomaster for like 7 months until they fixed it. Damn, I’m gonna miss you when your lights go out for good.

An Oral History of Putting The Goddamn Empty Ice Cube Tray Back In The Freezer

           There are some habits that are menial. You can go through life without even knowing they exist. There are some habits that are of the greatest consequence. You go through days avoiding relapsing into the groove of past actions, of a regularity that you wish to avoid. Then there are the habits in the middle. This is a story of those middle-habits.

Nick: 

The act of putting an empty ice cube tray back in the freezer is more than simple laziness – it is a defiant act of chaos. It is Nolan’s Joker personified by a domestic act, an intentional act of kitchen terrorism. It requires someone to not only have the laziness to not fill up the ice cube tray after use, but to then exert effort into putting the tray back, thus taking up space in addition to giving false hope and the appearance of readily available ice.

Josh:

As someone who moved into 79 a year after DH, Gene and Robby, my big ideas about house living often fall on deaf ears. I generally don't care very much about many things, but sometimes I want some ice cubes in my drink.

Nick:

I am a big dude who sweats, drinks, and works out a lot. It creates the perfect storm for water consumption, and I like that shit cold. Not having ice in the freezer elicits the kind of anger in me that is rarely seen outside of a youth hockey game.

Josh:
I am a minimalist in almost all aspects of food preparation, from food prep time to dishes used. I make exceptions for ice cube trays. That shit takes time to freeze. Rome wasn't built in a day. It baffles me that someone could have so much hate in their heart that they wouldn't refill the ice cube tray for the next overheated person looking for a refreshing beverage. The betrayal of putting the empty tray back in the freezer is of Benedict Arnold proportions and must never happen again.

Nick:
It is simply an inexplicable occurrence. I even bought extra trays to ensure that I'd always have ice on deck, but this was met with immediate (not to mention suspicious) anger, the problem being freezer-crowding. In retrospect, this would probably only exacerbate the issue, but at least now we can play moose with the extra trays.

Josh:
The first time that I encountered this man-made disaster, my reaction was a mixture of distress and anger. I assumed that my housemates would feel a similar desire to find the culprit and make sure something like this never happened again. Alas, I was scoffed at and the ice cube tray troll strikes occasionally.

Nick:
Luckily, now me and Josh have each other. And no one can take that from us. Not even the mysterious ice cube bandit.