Hot Dog Pasta – So Many Regrets

Posted on December 4, 2011 by

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Hot Dog Pasta - So Many RegretsMy cupboards are so often bare. Not “bare” in the actual sense, but “bare” in the modern sense: jars of mysterious Chinese and Tiawanese pastes that say things like “NO GOOD TO EAT RAW”, dried black beans, tricolour orzo, gelatin desserts, beer, jars of tikka masala sauce.

Likewise, the fridge has nothing that can be made into a single meal: chili garlic sauce, beer, three types of mayonnaise, two types of pickle, green olives, chocolate soymilk puddings that taste as though someone added cocoa powder to soybean poo, leftover hot dogs, curry paste.

Times like these (go on, shake your head — middle class problems), when I’m too wrapped up in what I’m doing to go to the store, I get…inventive.

Thus, Pâtes aux trois fromages à la Crème Faux Boeuf Ikea avec Saucissons Perdues et la Sauce Tomate, or “Leftover three-cheese pasta with cut up old hot dogs in the beef-flavoured cream-sauce mix you’re meant to use with Ikea meatballs topped with catsup”.

What culinary horrors we undertake. I’m not sure why I even had a packet of Ikea cream sauce mix. I thought it would make a respectable substitute for a cheese sauce, but the instructions call for cream. How can they justify that? I bought a cream sauce; I expect some bloody cream at least.

Well, I didn’t have any cream, so I made it with water, goat cheese and butterDON’TJUDGEME! and mixed it all up with the pasta. I recalled that hot dogs are a stapler of bachelor-esque food, and so in they went. Protein, you know.

The resultant mess looked like barf and tasted…actually quite good. Well, “good” is a relative term when one is cooking with discount furniture instant dried packet foodstuffs, but it was good in a way that might please the judges at the local 1957 casserole cookoff  in honour of some other, larger city’s World’s Fair. I only wish I had Spam strips and a crumb topping. Perhaps I would have been pushed out of a podium spot by Mrs. Harper and her salmon mousse with candied cherry but it would have been a close call, let me tell you.

After a bowl and a half I began to recall my sense of propriety — perhaps it was the fact that the sauce was congealing on my fork and the sausages squeaking on my teeth — and there was a horrid break in the old mental clouds during which I realised that, wait a moment, my father made a meal of jarred olives and beer nearly every day of his adult life and hadn’t suffered many repercussions apart from the oesophageal cancer that killed him at the ripe old age of fifty-three, and (let’s be honest) this was a lot worse than oesophageal cancer, when you really took stock of things.

I am now holding a bottle of ice-cold Guinness with one hand and sucking olive juice from the fingers of the other, writing this post as a cautionary tale. If you like food, for heaven’s sake don’t try anything funny; just get your arse off the chair and go to the damned market.

Whoo. Feeling a little dizzy all of a sudden. I wonder if my health care covers food poisoning aux imbécillité du chef.

Posted in: Food