My First Cooking Lesson-"milk marinated shrimp thrown into scalding peanut oil"

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression, my Mom is a great cook, and had to be with three boys. But the first cooking lesson I really remember clearly came from my brother Mike. Mike is my older brother by eight years. Mark is another two years older than him. It was like growing up with two hormonal crazy teenage uncles. Mom and Dad expected them to watch out for me and to take care of me, and they did. Mark is a specialty butcher and can find his way around the kitchen. Mike is the seafood lover in the family and a wonderful preacher-man, not a cook, for good reason.

Mike was baby sitting me. Mom and Dad and Mark were out. Mike had a craving for shrimp, as he often did. So we hoped into his tricked out truck painted with green pinstripes and headed down to Race Street off Blossom Hill road for some shrimp. The smell of fresh seafood and a salty wooden floor still reminds me of that place. Mike showed me around, clear bulging eyes looking back at us from inside the case. A guy with a thick mustache trying to emulate Dennis Eckersley helping Mike from behind the counter, the Oakland A’s having probably just won their third Word Series in a row.
With tiger shrimp in butcher’s paper in my lap we headed home to the sounds of America, The Doobie Brothers and The Beach Boys.

Once home we got to work, bringing out the wok Mom had brought home from a trip to Hawaii. We put in about two cups of peanut oil and placed it over the heat, shimmering while the shrimp continued to marinate in nothing but milk. I was sure Mike knew what he was doing, I mean, he was the older brother and everything he did was godlike to me, still is. I remember the way people were always happy to see him, his tan, his puka shell necklace, his cool truck. I recall the way he stared out his window and watched cars drive by while listening to music, the way he could drop a 15 foot jump shoot with nothing but net, again and again, and again. But this warm summer night he almost burned the house down.

I remember the size of the shrimp, huge to me, dripping with milk through Mike’s hands and fingers. With a quick athletic jerk, he threw the shrimp straight into the smoking oil and while my short life on Hilow Court flashed before me. The oil ignited as it reacted to the milk and flames rose as if a bomb had gone off. I would like to give Mike complete credit for saving the house that day, not only was he responsible for starting the fire, but for extinguishing it as well. “OPEN THE FRONT DOOR, OPEN THE FRONT DOOR, OPEN THE FRONT DOOR, OPEN THE FRONT DOOR!!!!” I think he wants me to open the front door, I thought to myself, staring like a moth attracted to the flames. Mike successfully carried the walk the front porch while the black smoke brought involuntary tears to his eyes.

Ok, situation under control. Fire damage to house, no damage. Hot oil on our bodies, no scaring. Hot oil spilled on plastic linoleum floor, no melting. Fresh shrimp for dinner, well, no. Disaster averted, not yet. Yes, the fire was out and the incinerated shrimp boiling in hot lava was cooling on the front porch, but the kitchen was engulfed in smoke. Time for action, Mom and Dad could not find out what happened or we would never see the light of day again. Well, I would, but Mike would definitely not. We raced to open the house, windows, sliding glass doors, garage door, any thing we could open to get air flow. Once we felt safe the laughing started, for two hours as we tried to clear the house of smoke, the only evidence.

We actually thought we had pulled it off as we ate whatever leftovers Mom had provided for us that night. We giggled as we watched TV and ate, sure that we had pulled it off. If we could only compose ourselves, we were like criminals hoping to calm down before interrogation. I’m sure Mike was thinking that I was the only thing keeping him from getting into trouble. “I hope Paul can stand up against Mom’s cross examination.”

Nervously we heard the car drive up the driveway as the headlights shone across the kitchen table. Stay cool, no problem, this is it, keep a straight face, all we had to do was act like nothing happened. Steps clicking up the walkway, we did it, steady. Voices, the key in the lock, we were the smartest kids in the world, invincible.

Our eyes bulged as we stared at each other, our hopes crushed, our crime exposed as we heard Mom’ voice, “What is my wok doing on the front porch?!?!?!?”

BUSTED!!!