People ask, “Joe?” and I say, “What?” and they say, “Joe, where’d you learn to cook like you cook?”
And I tell them, “Mind your own business and get away from me!”
And they ask me again, so I finally tell them my story, just so they’ll stop talking to me.
What I tell them is this: I was raised in my Grandmother's house while my parents toured the failing Vaudeville circuit. Nana Joe could cook! You don’t believe me? She made a potato salad that would make you cry - it was so good!
I would stand by the oven and watch her cook like an artist. I would watch her and she would say, “Who are you?” (Nana liked her cooking sherry).
I would answer her, “It’s me Nana – Joseph!”
“Ah, Brenda,” she would sigh, “You get away from my kitchen!” and she’d pelt me with onions (not just any onions, of course, but the finest, freshest onions this side of… of… they were really good onions… I should know. I pried enough of them out of my ear).
But I kept watching… and I learned that you don’t deep fry in a tank top.
And that’s how I learned to cook like I cook.
So... Come enjoy my food. Then pay your bill and go home… and don’t make a mess!
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(The legal weasels made us say this.)