I love, love, love corny jokes. You know, the ones that most people groan upon hearing? I’m usually snorting with laughter. Legitimately.
My favorites are puns. Don’t even get me started. I laugh harder than is probably acceptable at stuff like this. And this. And oh dear…this.
Most people get ticked off when conversations on Reddit devolve into pun threads, but whenever that happens, I do a little fist-pump and I’m in my glory. The nerdier the topic, the better.
So several months ago, when I found a cooking blog titled “Crepes of Wrath,” I knew that, to make a Steinbeck pun, its author must be good people, and that I simply had to try at least one of her recipes.
I decided on this baby, as I was looking for a recipe using cube steak that wasn’t chicken fried steak. Don’t get me wrong, chicken fried steak is the ultimate in feel-good comfort food, but it is also the ultimate in get-huge-and-have-a-heart-attack food. You really can’t have it more than five times a year if you want to live past 40… and I’m pretty sure that I do.
Colin always half-jokes about how I’m going to clog his arteries and give him diabetes and make his heart explode because of my cooking. Never mind that I use olive oil and make vegetables with every meal, because he is convinced I am going to be the death of him.
Then he asks me to make chicken fried steak and I tell him that if his heart explodes it’s partially his fault because he ALWAYS asks me to make this — seriously, every time we have cube steak in the freezer — and he says that because it’s only a sometimes food it’s still all my fault.
I guess if I plan on ever having kids, I should get used to everything being my fault.
He’s right, though. Chicken fried steak really, REALLY should only be a sometimes food. Like, maybe a couple of times a year food. Because it’s double (or triple) battered and breaded, fried in oil that does not come from olives, then slathered in a creamy white gravy made of grease, flour, whole milk and salt. And usually served with creamy, buttery mashed potatoes. And vegetables. Because I care about my boyfriend’s arteries, and my own.