I had the most wonderful dream last night—real life-affirming shit. I mean, technically, it was an anxiety dream, but I managed to mess that up. I’m very proud.
I’m trying to figure out my next move. I’m really looking forward to making Chalupa Cabra, but I’m having trouble sourcing goat meat—specifically goat shanks. I can buy a whole goat, no problem, but that’s a little rich for my blood. I could also get 15 pounds of goat cubes, which is slightly better. I may have to venture out to a halal butcher shop. Time will tell.
For the base, I’m using Navajo frybread. I’m really excited about that. Reservation Dogs got in my head. No idea how I’ll cook the goat yet—that depends on what cut I get. Part of me wants to be traditional, and part of me just wants to do whatever I feel like. I think that’s what the dream was about.
I’m really happy with Shrimp with Benefits—both the dish and the video. But there’s a big part of me freaking out about my lack of social media presence. It’s been a little over a year, and I only have 151 Instagram followers, most of whom seem to be Eastern European hookers. Facebook is worse, with just 69 followers. YouTube is a bit more encouraging at 89 subscribers, but then YouTube took down my holiday gumbo short—one of my most popular videos—for alleged copyright infringement. The music was from a royalty-free source, but I’m not going to argue with YouTube. I’ve always known it’s their game.
On the plus side, I’ve figured out how to somewhat manipulate Facebook’s algorithm, and it no longer thinks I’m Black. Do you have any idea how much Neil Diamond and Kid Rock I had to "like" to stop seeing football and rap videos?
I haven’t made an SWB promo for Instagram yet. I need to. Again, I’m really proud of the video and the dish. "Who I am" came through a lot more this time, but I’ve been hesitating to promote it. I wasn’t sure why—until just now. Ah. There it is. Sorry, it’s early in the morning; this is when my brain works things out.
My mission is to keep putting out actual content and start promoting it. Again, the dream. I can’t get caught up in approval. It’s so easy to fall into that trap, obsessing over followers. I have to stay the course.
If anything annoyed me about the SWB recipe, it’s that I accidentally Creole’d it up. By the end, it was basically blackened shrimp in a red pepper cream sauce over orzo—which, honestly, is fine. It was delicious.
The Dream
I'm not this big. But it's a really decent AI approximation of me at 347 pounds. AI's not great with subtlety. You're either fat or thin.
So, in the dream, I was sitting at a counter, and for some reason, Emeril was there. God, he used to annoy me, but over the years, I’ve really come to respect him. The guy can cook, he’s a hell of a salesman, and he’s just so gosh-darned likable. Anyway, he was selling a new line of signature cough suppressants—think Nyquil with a cayenne kick. Out of courtesy, I took a shot. It wasn’t bad. The expectorant part was a little rough, though—I started choking and coughing up blue gelatinous chunks. But once that was over, Emeril and I got to talking about what he’s doing now and about dissatisfaction. I told him he needed to go back to Emeril Live because that’s when he seemed happiest—entertaining a crowd.
The idea of doing a live shoot terrifies me. I have no personality when I’m cooking. That’s not true—I do have one, but it’s a little raw. I think that’s why I went with an intro and voiceover for SWB.
After talking to Emeril, I found myself in a spherical theater—720°. It was incredible. I even said so in the dream. I told the guys working the booth (real-life Lodge brothers), “Now this is a holodeck.” It reminded me of the immersive theater we have at the Houston Scottish Rite.
Anyway, I was there to appeal a decision—apparently, I had been deemed unfit to cook a steak, which was complete bullshit. The man administering my new test was kind and understanding, but I was still stinging from the last one. I had to cook a steak on an unfamiliar grill without knowing how the judge wanted it prepared.
The first judge—the one who failed me—was a former boss. I don’t know which one exactly, just that he was there again, also being judged.
So I started asking pre-test questions, trying to avoid the mistakes I’d made before, but the compassionate judge started stonewalling me. Compassionately.
Ah, shit. I just realized who the compassionate judge was.
Anyway, I finally asked, “Why do I even need to take this test?”
“Because it’s important.”
“To whom? I don’t care.”
“But you have to do this. We must know.”
“Maybe. But making me guess what you want isn’t a test of my kitchen skills—it’s a test of my willingness to comply. Let me do what I want to do, then judge me on that.”
“No. You must complete the test. This is very important. I will give you time to carefully consider this.”
“Do I have enough time to smoke a cigarette?” (I quit smoking. Well, I’ve been between cigarettes for years now.)
“Yes. Go burn one and come back.”
Outside, my friend Jeff was there with several Scottish Rite members. I thought about bumming a cigarette from Pravin, who, to my knowledge, doesn’t even smoke. Then I saw Jeff. Other guy probably had menthols. I bummed a smoke from Jeff instead.
As we talked, he asked if I was crazy. “Why are you blowing this off?”
“I don’t need permission to do what I’m doing. I don’t need approval. I just need to do it.”
The compassionate judge came outside. I looked at him and said, “I don’t need this. You can’t stop me. If I follow your rules, you own me. And that’s not what this is about.”
Then my bladder let me know I had to pee. My prostate chimed in: Yeah, good luck with that.
So, I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing because, while it may not be “right,” it’s right for me.
Now. Go cook something.
See? No in between. Still, I honor our robot overlords and welcome them with open arms. Please don't vaporize me.
