Culinary Dorm Corner: The Waffle-Maker

Life isn’t really that interesting in the dining halls at Northwestern. Sometimes you just need to grab it by the lady balls and find your own way to make it interesting. How can you do that, one may ask? Well let this Professor school you, motherfucker.

It can also double as a bludgeon

The secret is the Waffle Iron. This safety hazard will literally enhance your downtrodden life here. Say you didn’t get a bid at that frat/sorority. Put a waffle on it! Say your puppy turned one and crossed that boundary into doghood, but you’re studying for a 300-level marketing class eight states away. Put a waffle on it! Say you just found out that your roommate has an Asian AND a hammock fetish and insists on unabashedly having air-suspended sex with the more intelligent half of NU’s population should you come in at the wrong time. PUT A WAFFLE ON IT. It’s practically God’s gustatory band-aid for your stomach!

So here’s how you wrangle this beast:

You walk into the freaking dining hall WITH YOUR ID ALREADY OUT SO YOU DON’T HOLD UP THE LINE LIKE IT’S AN AIRPORT. Then you walk over to the main entrée station and grab a plate. Does that vegan sloppy joe station look good? NEVER. NOT NEXT TO A WAFFLE! Walk over to the waffle thing. Grab a cup o’ dat sweet sourdough batter shit. Pour it onto the waffle iron that could inevitably lead to several clumsily self-inflicted wounds and pour that deliciousness all up on that inefficient grid pattern. Follow the directions. That is, turn it a 180-degree spin and wait for the bell. Spin it back around and take the waffle off and put it on your plate. Now the fun begins.

What are you gonna do with that hot sexy waffle tantalizing you with its butter legs open and its square holes unfilled? Points for the extreme sexual innuendo? Only in my kitchen, bitches.

This is true art

Anyway, while it’s hot, you can adventure over to the peanut butter or the nutella and slather that shit on like your grandma puts on foundation and concealer. No one wants to see you come back with a lousy butter and maple syrup confection! THEY WANT ARTISTRY! CREATIVITY! CHOLESTEROL! Bring them something with caramel syrup from the ice cream station topped with soft serve and Trix for crunch! Bring them something with peanut butter and apple sauce! Bring them something with yogurt and fruit! Don’t be a waffle pussy, get in there and get primitive!

Happy Eating!

Authors That Would Make Bad Writing Infinitely Better

As a manipulator of the English language myself, I hold several beliefs dear to my heart. They are as follows:

1) If you are over the age of 12 and still cannot successfully distinguish when words should have apostrophes (confusing “it’s” and “its,” “your” and “you’re”), I cannot respect your education. Why are you stupid?
2) If you can’t write something nice, don’t write anything at all. I’m not talking about pleasant or polite; I’m referring to “nice” writing as the opposite of writing that is bad, boring, poorly written, wrong, pointless, confused, frustrating, or Rick Perry.

Yeah, I know. It’s radical. Of course, not as radical as Rick Perry. But let’s face it: there is some literature/film/music that simply should have been penned by someone other than the original author. In some cases, aforementioned art is a slice of brilliance that got tarnished in the current writer’s incapable hands; in other cases it is an unsalvageable failure whose only option is to get worse so as to become presentably heinous.

In fact, may I make a few suggestions?

Twilight
by Terry Pratchett*
We’d all like this series so much better if Ms. Meyer’s attempt at a love story about a girl next door (translation: exposition on How To Have A Dysfunctional Relationship) had relatable and quirky characters with different fonts for every time they spoke. P-rad knows exactly how to make a totally impossible instance (Death playing Santa Claus? Criminals becoming post-men? Women in the army and not in the kitchen?) plausible, insightful, and funny — qualities which are all completely lacking in the hands of its current author.

Miley Cyrus’s memoir, Miles to Go
by Lemony Snicket
I haven’t read the original, but here is what I imagine it will read like, “My daddy is the only reason I’m famous. My brother croakmoans uncomfortably horny music to an audience that hasn’t got boobies yet. My boyfriend is way too old for me. I like drugs.” Are you attached to any of these characters? Do you care if the melancholy wit of Lemony Snicket creatively kills them off? Me neither. Just add a narrator who regularly urges you to stop reading, a meaninglessly depressing end,** and illustrations by Brett Helquist, and we’ve got ourselves acceptable piece of literature. It might even be appropriate for children, unlike everything else about Miley. Which brings us to:

“Party in the USA”
by Adele
Face it. She’d sing it better. Adele’s been so angsty lately (trying to set fire to the rain and all. She must be so frustrated) I’d like to see her getting down and shaking those God-given gifts. We know that when a Jay-Z song is on in Adele’s taxicabs, you better believe she puts her hands up.

Freud’s Early Theories
by Tara Gillespie
If you think about it, it wouldn’t be too different: My Immortal (the world’s worst fanfiction) and Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams are both mostly about sex/mostly wrong about sex. But if our favorite “goff” wrote it, we’d have the added pleasure of trying to decipher what words were behind the awful spelling in addition to laughing at his concept of penis envy and her concept of orgasm. Maybe she’d throw in some Harry Potter references*** along with her My Chemical Romance worship, extensive description of fishnets, and use of the phrase “passively frenching.” On the negative side, there will undoubtedly be a morbid amount of it’s/its confusion, but on the plus side, as far as we can tell, Tara wasn’t on cocaine, unlike Freud.

Glee
by Tommy Wiseau
Oh hai: it’s another artist who lacks command of the English language. Be honest with yourself — you don’t watch Glee for its**** gripping storyline. Having America’s most multi-untalented artist write/direct/produce/star/fornicate in the musical TV show can only make it more interesting. You know you want more of the writing that made Tommy’s masterpiece, The Room, so fantastic — what better way than to sit down with a bowl of popcorn to a fusion of pop culture featuring quotable magnificence such as, “You ah tearing me apaht, Wachel!” and “I did NAHT hit on Kurt. I did NAHT.” Best of all, we get to hear more of his wonderfully attractive accent/speech impediment as applied to music. Which, of course, he’ll arrange and sing entirely by himself.

Unfortunately for you, I have no suggestions on how to improve your terrible English paper. And so, I leave you with the immortal words of Dr. Seuss:
You have brains in your head, you have feet in your shoes,
You have heinously read all Sir Twattingworth spews.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose
(Just as long as it sounds like Erman Shmavenues).

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*Another soul who understands the beauty in a footnote. All I want for Christmas is his semen in a petri dish with the reproductive cells of Bristol Bacchus. Bristol, dibs on being godmother.
**I’m all for realistic children’s literature, but I was really attached to Uncle Monty. And did anyone else develop a phobia of Lachrymose Leeches in Lake Michigan?
***Godwin’s law of NU: the longer a conversation continues between two NU students, the more likely a Harry Potter reference becomes.
****Did you see that apostrophe? No, you didn’t, because it does not belong there. It belongs in the first sentence of that paragraph.