Apparently Some Genes Can't Be Broken

My father was a mechanic.  He was like alot of men.  I've heard several wives who have husbands who paint for a living and won't paint at home, or they are handymen and won't fix the routine maintenance on their own home. 

My dad repaired things, but not necessarily in the preferred fashion.  He repaired our cars with whatever might be handy.  I'm sure both my brothers could tell you the crazy things he did to keep our cars running.

So...my brother Mark loves to cook.  I remember over 30 years ago when he lived in a trailer in our back yard he was making a chocolate cream pie.  He didn't have a mixer, only a beater that would fit into a mixer.  Don't ask my why he didn't walk 50 feet and go to our house and borrow a mixer, that is something that I'm sure Einstein himself couldn't answer.

Instead, He grabs his drill, takes off the drill bit and duct tapes the beater to the drill and proceeds to whip up his concoction.   Tasted pretty good, I'll have to admit.  Maybe the drill grease was a secret ingredient.

Several months ago, his garage door opener broke.  Looking around his garage he found whatever was laying around, which happened to be parts of an ice maker. 

You should have heard my husband laughing when he realized that my inventor brother had rigged parts of an ice maker to make his garage door opener continue to work.  Don't ask me how.   I'm sure somewhere there is an attorney that told ice maker makers to include warnings that say, "Ice maker parts should not be used to become a garage door opener" because some crazy person did it, was injured and sued.  Bob liked to call him Rube Goldberg, which fits so well.  And I won't EVEN go into why he installed a funnel in his garage, next to the sink, but I suppose only a man could figure out why.

Anyway to this day, my brother loves to cook, in fact does most of the cooking in his household.  We routinely visit to partake of his chili, spaghetti, anything fixed in his smoker.  He is really a very good cook.

So last fall,  I invited my family to watch the Colts game and to let me know and I would fix some coney dogs.  I also love to cook and there is something about football that seems to require coney dogs.  

No one responded until my Einstein brother called about an hour and half before the game.  I told him I would run and get some stuff to make us some coney dogs and I can hear my sister-in-law in the background screeching something. 

Just so no one will get the wrong impression here, my family thrives on smart-a$$e$, so my sis-in-law fits right in.

Anyway, she is yelling so I can hear her, "Tell her that I don't want coney's, she puts too much meat into her coney sauce."  Yes, she is very odd.  Love her, but puhlease...who are you, Princess Diana?  How do you have too much meat for a coney dog?   I already had a turkey breast roasting in the oven, but I knew it wouldn't be done in time and besides, she got sick once on chicken and I figured I would probably have too much meat in the turkey breast.

So I am trying desperately (because I only want to please my family and would never think of serving my dear crazy sis-in-law, Lady Di too much meat in her coneys) trying to figure out something I can make in 30 minutes that will make her happy for at least the entire Colts game.  I only want to keep her happy.

Mark and I finally decide I can make tacos and they will run past the store on their way over since I didn't have anything in the house.

Of course I am trying to figure out how to make tacos with not alot of meat, but I didn't fret over it too much. 

They arrive with about 25 minutes to spare before the game begins

I fried up the taco MEAT.  They brought some canned cheese sauce and refried beans along with chips and all the fixins. 

I take the refried beans, open the can with a can opener and am about to scoop out the refried beans into a microwavable bowl when my poor-man's inventor brother takes the can.  He turns it upside down over the bowl and I see him grabbing my good knife that I had on the counter.  This is not a Wal-Mart $5.99 knife, this was a GOOD set of knives I paid a dime-shy of a fortune for.

I have an immediate flashback to my dad.  Back when countertops had metal edges, my dad and his buddies used the metal edge to pop off the caps of beer bottles. 

I could see what he was going to do and was yelling NO NO NO.  Short of sticking my hand between the can and the knife, there was no stopping what was about to happen.

My genius brother did what my family used to do to get dog food out of the can.  After opening one end, you "release" the vacuum by stabbing the bottom of the can with a knife so you can just shake out the contents.  I'm pretty sure you could get the same affect by simply using the can opening on the bottom side.  Personally, I just use a spatula to get stuff out of a can. 

Did I mention that I love my knives? 

I watch him, screaming like I was Julia Roberts in Sleeping With The Enemy while he stabs the bottom of the can.  He was lucky I didn't have a gun.

I grabbed my abused knife out of his hand while he is laughing at me and inspect it like I'm a genetic scientist. Since I didn't have a microscope handy, I couldn't see any permanent damage, although I'm sure it's there lurking, waiting until I want to slice a tomato.

I did what came naturally.  I slapped him hard on the shoulder.  And the closest shoulder was the one which had just been operated on a couple weeks ago and is still in a sling.

Hey, his shoulder will heal, my knife won't.