I was lucky enough to be able to have dinner with my dad three out of the past four nights. My dad is an excellent eating companion. First because he usually orders dessert, and second because he gets pretty silly, and doesn’t care who sees him. Louie and my mom, who were also there for two of the three dinners, are no different. Family meals are never quiet. When Louie and I were younger, we’d actually get so worked up and silly over dinner, that my parents would have to sit us down beforehand and remind us that “Dad’s been working all day, and he is tired and would like to be able to have a nice dinner and get a word in edgewise for lord’s sake. So please try not to take up the ENTIRE conversation with your endless wall of sound.” We’d sheepishly agree to the New Dinner Terms and go about our day. But once we all sat down, someone would belch, mom would crack a smile, and it would be all over.

In honor of so many loony Cole Family Dinners, I would like to present a few photos of our dinners over the years.

Here are some choice moments from a lunch we had at Pea Soup Andersons a few years ago:

Louis went into hiding after we noticed how large the Christmas-themed centerpieces were.

Dad drank his coffee “handsfree.” I can’t remember why.

And why tone it down on foreign soil? Here’s a sample of what happened in Italy in 2004:

Louie photographs me being attacked by a fork.

Someone was doing something to make my mom laugh this hard. Tears and abdominal pain are common side effects of our raucous dinners.

A work of art by Louis.

And finally, our yearly trips to Seattle, wherein the entire Cole Family gets together to laugh and eat:

Someone brought a propeller beanie to the dinner table and we all took turns modeling it…

…even the Matriarch of the family, my grandma Nina. See where we all get it?

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Hey folks! Have you vomited recently? If your answer was no, I may have a solution. You see, long before there was ipecac, there was…

The presentation alone seems to dare even the most iron-stomached diners to keep this meal down. But it’s the ingredients themselves that really present a challenge: warmed (not boiled) sour cream, enveloped lovingly by browned beef liver and crispy bacon, and nestled on a fluffy bed of steamed white rice. That’s a hefty 495 calories a serving- if your digestive system can keep it together long enough to actually glean any nutrients from this dreary, brown nauseant.

For advanced vomiters, who prefer a more colorful gastric display, the authors of this recipe have suggested the dish be served with Fresh Spinach Salad and Sweet and Sour Beets, and be followed by Orange Sherbet for dessert. Nearly all the colors of the rainbow will be represented in your emesis!

So by all means, dig in. Sear yourself some liver, and start clearing out the ol’ gut. It’s the perfect way to start to the New Year!

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Hello!

Tonight, I am making a ham. A giant, heavy ham. In my cast iron pot from my mom. I will either wind up stuffed full of pig meat and happy, or stuffed full of pig meat and hospitalized with Trichinosis. Either way, you, the reader, will win.

I’ve just placed The Beast into the oven. Now I wait. And while I wait, I must go for a swim, to prepare for the Face Stuffing that’s sure to come in a few hours. Plus, it might be the last time I fit into a bathing suit. (It’s a big ham.)

Goodbye!!

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‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all the through the house, my brother and I were trying decide what to do with this giant hunk of gingerbread dough that we’d made the previous night.

Originally the plan was to make a basic gingerbread house, but we soon realized that was stupid. “An aircraft carrier!” suggested Louis. “What about a gingerbread tall ship?” I asked. We laughed, and then each spent the next 25 seconds attempting to mentally construct sea-going gingerbread vessels. “Nah…We don’t have the capabilities,” was the general consensus. Then Louis had a stroke of genius: A head.

Yep. That was the answer. Here’s how we did it:

STEP 1: Select two bowls over which you will mold the dough into two halves of a head. (Pyrex works.)

STEP 2: Roll dough out, and drape over buttered Pyrex bowl; Trim edges.

STEP 3: Ask a master craftsman (in this case, my brother) to lovingly carve a face into the dough.

STEP 4: Stand back and admire the tortured face of your gingerbread person.

STEP 5: Bake the poor screaming fellow at 350º for 20 minutes.

STEP 6: Allow to cool before removing face from bowl.

STEP 7: When the thing still won’t come off the bowl, come up with an ill-conceived plane: Put it in the freezer!

STEP 8: Remove from freezer and attempt to remove face; Fail.

STEP 9: Cook back of head at 350º for 35 minutes. Feel free to insert a large, rolled-up piece of foil between the bowl and the dough to create neck fat.

STEP 10: Reform another face, but this time do it over some parchment paper, dummy!

STEP 11: Finally, successfully remove the pieces of head.

STEP 12: Glue ‘em together. We used our patented Caramel Bonding™ (take the fancy caramel from your mom’s pantry, melt it in the microwave, and stick in between the head parts.

STEP 13: If you’re feeling sad that your dad has to work on Christmas, you could always leave him a heart-warming message.

And that’s how you make a festive Christmas head! (You’re welcome.)

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Sunday, two of my best friends, Chris and Sarah, married each other. The beautiful outdoor ceremony was followed by a delicious dinner and a lively reception. There was a little Hava Nagila, a bouquet toss and quite a lot of awesome dancing by the bride’s father. But most importantly to me, there was cake. It was a three layer affair, filled with lemon curd. If I could have eaten four pieces, I would have (although, after the buffet, my bridesmaid dress may not have allowed it). The cake also pleased Paul, who has been craving citrus flavor since August when he requested a strawberry cake with lemon curd and “regular” frosting and instead got white cake with buttercream frosting.

You may be asking why I didn’t deliver for the poor guy on his birthday. “What kind of a terrible person are you that you ignored his one simple birthday wish?” you are saying. Well, “Shut up” is my reply to you. I didn’t ignore it. I just… failed. In fact, the birthday cake Paul did get was served the day after his birthday. It’s a tragic story of dashed hopes, culinary disaster and germophobia. And I’ve been sitting on it since August because I was so embarrassed about the whole thing. I am finally ready to share.

First of all, Paul, if you’re reading this, your cake idea was insane and vague. Strawberry flavored cake with lemon curd? And when I asked you what you meant by “regular” frosting, you paused the baseball game, shrugged and said, “I dunno. My mom used to make it.” Thanks, man.

But that’s all the blame I’m going to place on Paul. Because the reality is, this was my fault. I said yes to his request, gave it my all, and it was hideous.

I began by baking two layers of white cake, which I intended to flavor with strawberry extract. Naturally, though, I forgot to add it. The cake itself was fantastic, but to make up for the lack of fruity essence, I decided to flavor the “regular” frosting with the extract. When I searched all of my cookbooks for a frosting recipe that suited the requirements, all I could come up with were soupy icings. So, I cheated and reached for a can of vanilla frosting that I was saving for a fondant experiment. I plopped a few drops of strawberry extract in and stirred it up.

Meanwhile, back in the refrigerator, my “lemon curd” was cooling. It smelled delicious, and looked alright, too. But, during the cooking process, the mixture at the bottom of the pan had heated too quickly and little bits of scrambled egg began floating around. I pulled it off the heat to try and save it, but worried that I hadn’t cooked the rest of the eggs all the way through. So, to me, the bowl of lemon curd sitting my fridge was a salmonella time bomb. “It’s fine!” said Paul, who, on the anniversary of his birth, was asked to test a potentially fatal dessert. I wasn’t convinced. But, I slathered it in between the cake layers anyway and went for the frosting to finish what was quickly becoming the least appealing baked good ever.

What I neglected to take into account was that the apartment in August is over 90 degrees some afternoons. Add to that a poorly insulated oven that’s been at 350º for over an hour and you’ve got yourself a frosting meltin’ good time. Though the cake had fully cooled, the disgusting strawberry concoction was near liquid and hardly stuck to the cake. And yet, somehow, my spatula broke in the process. I spooned the rest of the frosting on.

What I wound up with was a slightly warm, possibly poisonous, dripping mess of questionably flavored cake-

From above, it doesn’t look too bad, I guess. I mean, there’s an errant drop of lemon curd on the top, and the edges are a little messy, but it doesn’t look that horrible. I refused to serve it though. I wouldn’t even bring it out to the living room to show the Birthday Boy. I made him come into the kitchen and promise not to touch it. I even cried a little bit. (Okay. I cried a lot.) Here is why:

There was no birthday cake that night. Just a lot of sniffling and apologizing- first for the cake and then for ruining a perfectly good birthday with my sobbing. But I took a Mulligan and the next night baked up something resembling edible. Thankfully, Paul got his lemon curd fix Sunday night- even if it was two months late.

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Recently my family and I met for dinner at a little place called the Claim Jumper. We Coles love comically huge portions of various meats and cakes, so it’s a natural fit for us. We each took our time to carefully select dishes that would both satisfy our personal tastes AND impress the hell out of everyone else.

Mother came in last place with her order of beef stew. Hearty and delicious, yes. But the wow factor is close to zero. I was in fourth place with the Sliders: Four tiny burgers that were indeed satisfying, but lacked the ridiculous size element that the judges look for. Louis and his fish n’ chips took 3rd place. He narrowly escaped taking fifth place by adding an unexpected side of frozen grapes at the last moment.

Paul placed second by a mile, ordering a cheeseburger called “the Widowmaker.” A plain cheeseburger wouldn’t have gotten him a silver medal, but this one had avocado, fried onion rings, and bacon and was a good 5 inches tall. (Side note: This order took first prize in the Overall Caloric Content category.)

But the ultimate winner was my dad, who ordered a sandwich. We weren’t sure why he thought just a lil’ ol’ sandwich would make him a serious contender, but then he told us the name: “The Motherload.” I wasn’t convinced it would beat out the Widowmaker for Most Ridiculous Order until it arrived:

Yep. That’s the Motherload.  And lest you think there’s any visual trickery going on, allow me to show you this to put it into perspective:

It’s a winner’s sandwich if ever there was one.

Congratulations, dad!

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As reported by Jonathan Feldman.

A man and his wife are sitting at Mel’s diner eating breakfast.  Their waiter approaches the table to check up on their meal.  The man speaks, with the accent of a complaining Jewish version of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“Excuse me, these eggs are runny.  And this bread has caroway seeds, I can’t eat caroway seeds.”

“Ok sir, so do you want your eggs over medium?”

“Well these are runny, so they need to be done again.”

“Ok sir, and rye bread.”

1 minute passes.

“They didn’t even ask me what kind of bread I wanted.”

5 minutes pass.  The eggs and bread come back.

Picking up a slice of breads with his fingers, he asks, “Now what kind of bread is this?  The other one had caroway seeds, and I don’t like caroway seeds.”

“This is the rye sir.”

“Well is that the same as before?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t want it.”

Two minutes pass.

“She took my bacon.”

And scene.

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I recently purchased several books at a garage sale, because my house wasn’t feeling quite cluttered enough.  One of these books was Sunset magazine’s Barbecue Cook Book from 1979. In it are a variety of meat concoctions designed to impress your 4th of July guests. While flipping through it, I noticed a section on cooking lamb. It offers an eye-catching heading, and a description of the merits of featuring lamb at your next barbecue.

So there are many pros here. It’s tender. It’s juicy. It “has no rival when it comes to barbecuing.” (Sunset magazine’s obviously never had a hot dog, but whatever.) “Chunks” from different parts of the animal can be “threaded on skewers.” It’s excellent for producing an impressive spectacle of a meal, as “whole legs can be boned and butterflied and slow-cooked.”

Hard to believe there could ever be a downside to barbecuing baby sheep parts, right? Well, take a look at the accompanying illustration:

Mehhhhhhhhhhh! Hi, frieeeeend! Can weeeee come to your barbecuuuuuue?

How can you follow a recipe that involves killing something illustrated so adorably on the previous page? Those two little baby lambs, clearly the most tender and juicy of the bunch, are pretty much smiling at you. And the mama sheep stands over her savory and delicious children, head cocked to one side, big, stupid eyes filled with tears, as if to say “Why-y-y-y? Why would you take my baaaaaaabies from meeeee?” Immediately after they were finished sitting for this portrait, Team BBQ from Sunset magazine scooped up the babies and Mama sheep started plotting her violent revenge.

It is now 30 years later. She is prepared to take action. Mama sheep knows what’s up, Sunset magazine. Watch your back.

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While driving through Marysville in Washington, I passed a local restaurant with a sign advertising an excellent dinner value. Steak and prawns for two just $25! Wow!

But hold on a minute. Something about the fine print here is a tad befuddling.

Choice of beer, wine or pie? What?

See, while I find it puzzling that the establishment seems to be forcing the diner to choose between getting drunk or getting dessert, I find it even more puzzling that the establishment seems to think there is even a remote possibility anyone is going to turn down pie. That’s just unheard of where I come from.

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While out to eat this weekend in beautiful Burbank, David Malloy and I saw a new dinner selection being advertised at the Tallyrand. It confused me:

Half Baked Chicken? Is their head chef Jim Breuer, or does this just mean they’ve stopped trying? Whatever the case, I won’t be ordering it because it sounds like either a lousy meal or a health hazard.

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