Snoop Dog's In The House, er, the Kitchen

In twenty-plus years of cooking, I've made some memorable meals much like Snoop Dog has written some memorable lyrics.

"EeeyiyiyiyiyahtheDoggPound'sinthehou-owwse (the bomb)
EeeyiyiyiyiyeahtheDoggPound'sinthehou-oww-owse"

There was the time that, with mere spoonfuls left in her bowl of chicken rice soup, Allison discovered what, at first, looked like an uncooked grain of rice. In fact, it was the exoskeleton of the artist formerly known as "meal worm." What's a family to do, once they've reached the bottom of the proverbial bowls, except to wonder silently to themselves if meal worms might propagate in one's stomach lining?

"Snoop Doggy, Do-owww-ohhhh-oggg (the bomb)
Snoop Doggy, Do-owww-ohhhh-oggg (Dog)"

Years ago, I decided to battle my "mushroom" issues with a big potful of mushroom bisque. In the culinary world, this move was the equivalent of planting the flag at Iwo Jima, bold and brash and completely against the grain of all that is reasonable. Still, I managed to carefully wash and slice pound upon pound of my newfound fungal friends, adding handfuls into a pan of dancing butter. When the bisque was ready, Mark and I poured two bowls of the brown stuff and brought it to our quavering lips. About 45 seconds later, we tossed the remaining quarts down the alley, hoping no strays would come along and lap it up.

"It's the bow to the wow, creepin and crawlin
Yiggy yes y'allin, Snoop Doggy Dogg in
the mother(BEEPIN') house like everyday"

Last summer, during World-Cup fever, but just before we'd had two thousand vuvuzelas crammed noisily up our wazoo-zoolas, Lynn Ireland ran some sumptuous-sounding African recipes in her weekly Journal-Star column. I quickly cut out one, in particular, that caught my eye. Combining extensive spices, ground beef and bananas, and spreading it all out on a plateful of rice, this one had my name all over it.

I am, it turns out, a sucker for fruity meat dishes. Turns out, my family is not. There is an unspoken rule in the Holt household. Its unspokeness speaks volumes, though. Here is what a panning looks like at our dining-room table: Ten minutes into the meal, most of Mark's food is on his plate, though it has been shoveled around to new positions. It is about then when Mark and the kids share unspoken glances across the salt and pepper, each wondering when I'll ask if they like it. While silence is usually the kiss of death for a recipe in the Holt household, I really liked my African friend. And so we repeated the experience one more time, until I called "uncle" and tossed the clipping aside like so many vuvuzelas after a loss on the field.

"And let the Bizzow Wizzow ride the trizzack, ha ha
How you feelin'? I'm up to dealin', ridin' like a villan
Makin' a killin', thrillin' the crowd wit my new hairdo"

My cooking has a long and sordid history. There was the half-cooked hamburger I served to my soon-to-be vegetarian friend Allison...the 10 pounds of brisket I cooked down to something the size of a charcoal briquette, though slightly more flavorful...the innumerable chicken breasts, still tickled pink and viscous...flopped Indian cuisine that bore more resemblance to a papier-mache project than to food...apple-puff pancakes that lacked both puff and flour...

And yet, and yet. Like Snoop, that hip-hop genius, I know you's gots ta break some mother[BLEEPIN'] eggs to makes a [BLEEPIN'] omelette.

"Woof! motha[BLEEP], Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (Jeah, [BLEEP], I can make ya say)
Woof! motha[BLEEP]r, Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (yeah, tank doggs, let me hear ya say)
Woof! motha[BLEEP], Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (all my real rap niggaz say)
Woof! motha[BLEEP], Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (yeah, Mystikal, where you at?)"