Note – this was originally published November 11, 2009. I’m definitely not 24 anymore. Or a bachelor (miraculously).
I’m a 24 year old bachelor. I have a girlfriend, but because we’re both God-fearing Bible-beaters and because we’re both still afraid of our parents (mostly me being afraid of her father) we don’t live together. So since my woman isn’t around to do what women were born to do, I have to “cook” for myself.
If you’ve ever had a bachelor like myself or Kent cook a meal for you, this article is going to resonate with you like Snoop Dogg resonates in the hearts of suburban white kids. Understand, though, that I mean real bachelors, not one of these Food-Network-watching yuppie bastards that took a cooking class and can cook you anything that has “a la carte” or “flambé” in the name. If he’s not a professional chef and he can cook you anything that has any kind of French in it, he’s a douche and I want to fight him. End of story.
Anyway, real bachelors like us cook… creatively. For instance, breakfast for me is frequently a Pepperoni Pizza Pocket and a Dr. Pepper. If I have juice – and that “if” is very functional – I’ll drink that, because I guess it’s healthy or something. Kent has, on a few occasions, poured excessive amounts of sugar into his cereal in order to cover up the taste of expired milk. Lunch is almost 100% fast food, unless I decide to buy some bologna and cheese for sandwiches. That’s usually complimented with a side of chips (the legit kind, none of that liberal “baked” crap) or popcorn or candy or french fries that have been under my desk since last Tuesday, but who’s counting? Not me, and not my stomach either.
If it’s not a sandwich, then a frozen pizza is a strong contender. Wondering which brand to choose out of the abundant options? Kent once wrote an paper for microecon exploring the taste-to-dollar ratios of eight different brands. The man is the closest thing the world has ever known to a frozen pizza scholar. He deserves an honorary diploma from Notre Dame or the University of Arizona. Hell, they give them out to all kinds of unqualified people these days anyway.
The biggest culinary decision that we make is whether we should cut up hot dogs or sandwich meat in our Easy-Mac. At one point Kent decided he was going to reform his unhealthy ways and bought a bag of baby carrots. He discovered that they go bad if you leave them on the counter for over a week and hasn’t been back to the produce department since. Can’t blame him.
The other night I realized I had seven eggs that I had bought about a month before. Since I love the environment and I don’t want to waste, I decided that I should cook all seven for dinner that night. I had that, chips and queso, and beer for dinner. Sounds disgusting right? Wrong. Bachelors are like commandos in the kitchen. I use what I have and I make a meal out of it. Rachael Ray can kiss my ass, I’m the culinary MacGyver. The meals I make will explode the walls of your stomach and liberate the hunger that was trapped inside, and you know what? They’ll do it just in the nick of time. That’s how we bachelors like to do things. We improvise.
It may not be pretty – in fact you can bet your government-bailed-out pension it won’t be pretty – but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t make a meal.