The Workin' Man's Cookbook
A Humorous Guide to Home-Cookin'
by
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WARNING
I didn’t write this book to promote good health or to make you skinny like those super models you see on TV. You won’t find any low fat, low cholesterol, low sodium, or otherwise crappy tastin’ food here. This isn’t one of those sissy Gourmet cookbooks either. Escargot ain’t nothin’ but snails anyway. Who do the French think they’re kidding? Nouvelle Cuisine. You know what that is, brother? That’s a giant plate with midget vegetables and a pine sprig on it. Proper presentation means there’s got to be food present on your plate, not a bunch of weeds!
No sir, workin’ men gotta eat. Real food. I use real butter from artificially inseminated, steroid fed dairy cows somewhere in
Don’t worry if you don’t know squat about cookin’. If you can light a burner on your stove without blowin’ up the place, I can teach you the rest. I’ll be behind you every step. Way behind you. Remember, cookin’ ain’t rocket science, it doesn’t require exact measurements. You use a little of this, throw in a little of that. Experiment. Be creative. Don’t be scared. Worse case scenario, you burn the house down.
The most important thing to remember is that workin’ women gotta eat too. Try having a hot, home cooked meal waitin’ on the table when Mama gets home from work. You just might get lucky.
Let’s grab a beer and get started. I might get lucky too!
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About the Book
The Workin’ Man’s Cookbook is the kind of book Al Bundy would have written. He said a long time ago it was wrong to be French. The book is politically incorrect, chauvinistic, rude, and downright funny. It was written for you lunk-heads out there who can’t even boil an egg. The recipes are good, for the most part inexpensive, and the directions are easy to follow. After a couple of six packs, you’ll enjoy this book even if you don’t cook.
About the Author
First of all, I am not a chef. I cook for pleasure, not profit. (Unless this book takes off, of course.) I learned to cook primarily from my mother. When I was a teenager I was always hungry. Mom was usually preparing dinner when I came home from school and I would sneak in and try to grab a meatball or sausage from the skillet when she wasn''t looking. She caught me a few times and said if I was gonna be in the kitchen, I might as well help her get supper ready. Hey, it got me out of doin'' the dishes.
When I went off to college, or I should say, when I went off to a town that had a college, I got a job in a restaurant as a dishwasher. Being the industrious young lad that I was, I soon worked my way up to busboy. One step higher up the food chain, no pun intended. The cool thing about being a busboy was that you got to pick through the leftovers before the dishwashers got to them.
I don''t know if you''re aware or not, but there are a lot of drunks working as cooks. Almost every night one of the cooks would be passed out on the kitchen floor. I got promoted to salad chef pretty quickly, not because I was sober, but because I was the last one standing. Eventually I defaulted my way up to fry cook. And finally, of course, I ended up preparing the surf and turf. God help you if you sent something back to the kitchen.
The rest I pretty much learned by hook or by crook. If I found a dish I liked in a restaurant, I would go home and try to figure out how they prepared it, what spices they used. Sometimes you just end up throwing things together in a pot because that''s all you''ve got.