A selection from Kenan Tradeu's "Recipes THEY don't want you to know about"
As I looked through my potential ingredients for my next potential meal, I thought to myself "Why not mix things up today?"
Why not throw some ingredients together and make something that truly defines me, unfortunately, I think I did.
Hot dogs, tortillas and cheese for some reason jumped out at me in my hunger fueled delirium. So I proceeded to make "hot dog quesadillas"
Let me also clarify that I did have hot dog buns but chose not to use them, just so you're clear that this isn't some ill-prepared dorm room mash up. No, I had both of the essential things to make an accurate hot dog but I wouldn't be bound by the confines of common cooking practices. Instead I stood up against all reason and good judgment and began my cross-cultural onslaught of culinary treachery.
By the way Cross-cultural Onslaught of Culinary Treachery is Rachel Ray's new book.
So I placed the hot-dog in the tortilla with shredded cheese around the dog and rolled up my creation. I pretended that the hot-dog was a terrorist in a roll-up cheese-coffin a thought that preemptively compensated for the amount of dissatisfaction I was about endure. I then began to look for some butter or margarine to put in the pan but to my amazement, I was all out. So heres where the bad idea mutates, almost on it's own, into an awful one.
I used olive oil, extra virgin olive oil.
This was a mistake for several reasons and flavor was the least of my concerns. You see, I had already effectively bastardized both Mexican and American cooking but then added insult to injury with a splash of the Mediterranean. The other reason this was a mistake was because the lubrication that the olive oil provided became redundant when an involuntary ingredient fell into the pan, my tears.
Before I knew it my tear-soaked cheese-coffin was oozing with success and the terrorist inside was singed to my liking. Then I imagined that if the terrorist was still alive in there when I began cooking he had most likely been killed from cheese inhalation or incidental water boarding from my tears.
Then for the moment of truth, I took a bite. Oddly enough the tears stopped but I quickly realized that my body had prioritized it's moisture excretion to my salivary glands in an attempt to push the abomination down my throat. Then I figured since I had come this far why not throw some mustard on there. At this point I couldn't really tell if the mustard made it better or worse, it was so bad already that it was more of a distraction than a condiment. The last half of the hot dog quesadilla was a strange feeling to behold, I had accepted the flavor and now felt overwhelmed by a lack of enthusiasm for it (a feeling I once thought impossible).
So it was over and all I could think was, what the fuck is wrong with me? Why did that idea seem plausible or even appetizing? I came to the conclusion that I had to have seen a hot dog wrap somewhere before. But then I realized that I had seen that in a dream I had.
What a bad dream to have and with even worse results.
Boycott dreams.
Why not throw some ingredients together and make something that truly defines me, unfortunately, I think I did.
Hot dogs, tortillas and cheese for some reason jumped out at me in my hunger fueled delirium. So I proceeded to make "hot dog quesadillas"
Let me also clarify that I did have hot dog buns but chose not to use them, just so you're clear that this isn't some ill-prepared dorm room mash up. No, I had both of the essential things to make an accurate hot dog but I wouldn't be bound by the confines of common cooking practices. Instead I stood up against all reason and good judgment and began my cross-cultural onslaught of culinary treachery.
By the way Cross-cultural Onslaught of Culinary Treachery is Rachel Ray's new book.
So I placed the hot-dog in the tortilla with shredded cheese around the dog and rolled up my creation. I pretended that the hot-dog was a terrorist in a roll-up cheese-coffin a thought that preemptively compensated for the amount of dissatisfaction I was about endure. I then began to look for some butter or margarine to put in the pan but to my amazement, I was all out. So heres where the bad idea mutates, almost on it's own, into an awful one.
I used olive oil, extra virgin olive oil.
This was a mistake for several reasons and flavor was the least of my concerns. You see, I had already effectively bastardized both Mexican and American cooking but then added insult to injury with a splash of the Mediterranean. The other reason this was a mistake was because the lubrication that the olive oil provided became redundant when an involuntary ingredient fell into the pan, my tears.
Before I knew it my tear-soaked cheese-coffin was oozing with success and the terrorist inside was singed to my liking. Then I imagined that if the terrorist was still alive in there when I began cooking he had most likely been killed from cheese inhalation or incidental water boarding from my tears.
Then for the moment of truth, I took a bite. Oddly enough the tears stopped but I quickly realized that my body had prioritized it's moisture excretion to my salivary glands in an attempt to push the abomination down my throat. Then I figured since I had come this far why not throw some mustard on there. At this point I couldn't really tell if the mustard made it better or worse, it was so bad already that it was more of a distraction than a condiment. The last half of the hot dog quesadilla was a strange feeling to behold, I had accepted the flavor and now felt overwhelmed by a lack of enthusiasm for it (a feeling I once thought impossible).
So it was over and all I could think was, what the fuck is wrong with me? Why did that idea seem plausible or even appetizing? I came to the conclusion that I had to have seen a hot dog wrap somewhere before. But then I realized that I had seen that in a dream I had.
What a bad dream to have and with even worse results.
Boycott dreams.