Iron Chef Classic: Boyardee Vs. Mrs. Paul

Chef Boyardee enters the kitchen with his signature white toque perched atop his crown. The tension in the air is as thick as cauliflower bisque. Pride and bragging rights are on the line for this Italian immigrant turned culinary sensation. His tightly pursed lips and stern expression reveal a man who has no intention of losing this battle.

"I knowa my mama - she is-a watching," Boyardee boasts, as he removes an opener from his apron pocket and begins twisting an imaginary can.

Boyardee has every right to be cocky. Cans bearing his likeness sit in cupboards from Boston to Boise. It would be a daunting task to find a person in the Free World who has not sampled one of his signature dishes.

The point is not lost on his opponent, Mrs. Paul. Standing across the aisle, feet planted squarely like tomato stakes, she is not to be underestimated. Enjoying a virtual monopoly over frozen seafood, the no-nonsense "First Lady of Fillets" cemented her legacy by creating fish that does not taste "fishy." Winning over the palate of a persnickety generation is no small feat.

Not that Mrs. Paul is free from demons. The accusation by culinary professionals that frozen cod is inferior to fresh has hounded her reputation for years. She hopes a win today will lay the accusation to rest.

"My fish speak for themselves," she exclaims prior to show time.

Silence befalls the kitchen as the secret ingredient is revealed. The contestants lock eyes. For an instant, you can hear a corn holder drop.

"We've all eaten it, we all love it. It's in a shaker less than an arm's length away. The secret ingredient is … SALT!"

Mrs. Paul reaches over and nonchalantly pre-heats the oven to 475 degrees.

"One of the few minerals commonly eaten by humans … a primary cause of high blood pressure andheart disease … but no matter, it must appear in today's dishes."

"Allez Cusine!"

Mrs. Paul, wasting no time, seizes the cookie sheet, loudly clanging the aluminum on the counter. Efficiency, not style, takes center stage. Glancing at the clock, she tears a three-foot piece of tin foil and begins crimping the edges. The salt mill is whisked into play, as she sprinkles the crystals onto the foil.

Chef Boyardee, on the other hand, is off to a rocky start as he drops the Dinosaurs with Mini Meatballs, seriously denting the can's metal rim.

"Uh-Oh Spaghetti-Os!" Mrs. Paul chides, aware of her opponent's mishap.

Boyaradee awkwardly fiddles with the mechanical opener. The can twists methodically until encountering the crenel. Frantic and harried, he attempts to re-form the metal with the blunt edge of a serrated knife, a dangerous move in any kitchen. Perspiration forms on his brow.

Mrs. Paul unwraps her signature dish. No surprise here: fish sticks.

Knowing when not to fiddle with a classic entree, Mrs. Paul places the battered logs two inches apart on the salted foil. The oven door squeaks slightly. The cookie sheet glides onto the middle rack. The door is closed. The oven light is turned on. The timer is set for 12 minutes.

The audience squirms nervously as Chef Boyardee continues to struggle. "Give me-a strength momma," he mumbles into his sleeve. The clock ticks unforgivingly. The tapping of the rim continues. The crowd senses the Chef has no "Plan B" if the pasta is not set free.

A sigh of horror emits from the crowd as Boyardee's sous-chef, Vito de Vito, reaches across for a loaf of garlic bread.

"Careful Vito, I almost cut-a your hand!" Boyardee warns as he continues to pound the can, "You are-a not a cooking in-a Applebee's no more - watch what you are-a doing!"

"Sorry, Chef!"

Mrs. Paul seizes a bowl to concoct the tartar. Keeping it simple, she scoops in one and a half cups of mayonnaise followed by minced white onion, kosher dill pickle, celery, pimiento and a teaspoon of Dijon mustard. To no one's surprise the ingredients are stirred by hand. You would sooner find a tutu clad brown bear performing a soft shoe than find an electric mixer.

A bead of sweat slides down Boyardee's brow like rain dripping off a beefsteak tomato. Time is slipping away.

The water for the macaroni and cheese boils atop Mrs. Paul's stove. She pinches three tablespoons of sea salt into the brew and then pours the noodles into the bubbling water. "Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn, and cauldron bubble," she laughs.

Relief! Chef Boyardee opens the can of Dinosaur pasta, gaining access to the main entrée. Wasting no time, he scoops T-Rex and friends into a pot, methodically verifying that no mini meatball is left behind. To catch his nemesis, a mountain must expeditiously be climbed.

Mrs. Paul rips open a bag of frozen peas, side stepping the technical difficulties encountered by her opponent. The rock-like mass is anchored at the bottom of a pot.

"Should we microwave the vegetable?" whispers Wendell Scupner, Mrs. Pauls' sous-chef.

"Vulgarian," Mrs. Paul snaps, "bring the peas to a low simmer and stir occasionally." 

Vito places a slice of thick Italian bread on the cutting board and carefully trims the edges. "Does removing the crust enhance the flavor?"

"Not-a really," Boyardee replies, "but tha children, they don't-a like-a tha crust."

Boyardee hovers above the pot, knowing full well if the shape and form of the dinosaurs are compromised, points will be deducted. "The Stegosaurus must look-a like a Stegosaurus."

Draining the macaroni into the colander causes a billow of hot steam to rise into Mrs. Paul's face. She towels off like a prizefighter in the corner between rounds.

Focused and unnerved, she grabs two cheese pouches. Gripping the tops, she shakes the powder to the bottom.

"Never use just one packet," she says to her sous-chef, "it's not creamy enough."

Mrs. Paul tears open both pouches in one sweeping motion. The audience applauds the showmanship. The orangey dust falls upon noodles.

"Do we need any side dishes other than the garlic bread?" Vito asks Chef Boyardee.

"We're not-a running a restaurant," Boyardee belts, "garlic bread and-a-tha pasta - that's all we-a need!"

Boyardee smashes a garlic clove and begins mincing. The knife hits the cutting board with the machine-like staccato of a woodpecker.

"Mr. Parsley, you-a are next." Boyardee says, talking to his ingredients.

Mrs. Paul folds the cheese into the macaroni with a wooden spoon and glances at Boyardee. "Doth that man be genius or lunatic?" she wonders silently about her opponent.

Boyardee scoops soft butter and parsley into a bowl with the garlic, then stirs with the urgency of an ER doctor losing a patient.

"Watch-a me and learn Vito, this is how you-a make tha garlic bread."

Boyardee spreads the butter on the crust-less bread, taking extreme care to cover the entire surface. "Make-a sure, Vito, you spread tha butter to tha edges - then you-a get a little bit of Italy in every-a bite."

The bread is placed on a baking pan and escorted into the oven.

Ding! The fish sticks are done.

Mrs. Paul removes the cookie sheet and places it on the stovetop. The macaroni and cheese has reached a pinnacle consistency. The peas are as joyous as Christmas morning. Everything is coming together.

Boyardee dips his spoon into the pot, scoops out a pterodactyl and blows on the noodle. "Don't a-try this at home Vito, tha pasta - she can get-a very hot."

Boyardee smacks his lips. "Now that-a tastes delicious." Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, the chef lowers the burner.

Mrs. Paul grabs a stack of paper plates - the kind with three dividers that allot space for separate food items. Into the biggest divider, she sets two golden brown fish sticks. Placement is perpendicular. Symmetry is perfect. A scoop of tarter sauce completes the compartment.

The second and third cubicles host the macaroni and peas respectively. Mrs. Paul sprinkles salt across her plate like Fairy Dust.

"Quick Vito! We must-a begin plating!" Boyardee barks.

Vito grabs a ladle and spills some of the Jurassic Park noodles over the bowl's edge.

"Careful Vito! You are-a not serving a line of prisoners. Watch-a what you are-a doing!"

Chef Boyardee removes the garlic bread from the oven. "Do not-a forget the baked roll, Vito, or our dish, it is a worthless.

Time's up!

The chefs beam over their dishes. Both are perfect.

Applause echoes inside the studio as the audience salutes two classic geniuses. The winner will be determined by the three judges - and by the look on Boyardee, he is not happy to see an all female panel.

The plates are placed in front of Betty Crocker, Little Debbie and Marie Callender.

If these culinary sorority sisters hang together - it could be a long night for Mr. Boyardee.

Does Size Matter in Politics? Ask Bubba

There's always one candidate with a super-sized ego who
displays a sign that dwarfs all others. 

Staring at the ballot this past primary election had me asking one question: "Who the heck are these people?"

Don't blame me. The information we had to make decisions in the primaries was somewhat scarce. There were no debates, no television ads nor any photo ops or speeches aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln. At least there were none in my hometown of West Bloomfied, Mich.

So when I got into the booth, I literally had no clue as to whom the contenders were on the ballot. I stared at the names hoping for a revelation. After drawing a blank, I spent five minutes or so rearranging the letters in their last names, trying to spell a high-point Scrabble word.

That's not to say the actual names were unrecognizable. Our neighborhood landscape had been dotted with the candidate's political signs for weeks.

As I drove by, the names jumped out: BROWN; FARBER; HOUSEY; JACKSON; ROSENBERG; WARSHAY.

Our landscape had been dotted with political signs for weeks.

But what insights can be garnered from signs alone?

I guess certain assumptions may be based on font style. Certainly nothing scientific, but I wouldn't vote for anyone who uses Baskerville Bold Italic - too out of the mainstream. Likewise for Futura Condensed - too constrictive of a thinker. And anyone using Avant Guard Gothic Book Oblique, well don't get me started, obviously a pretentious square.

The color of the sign can also enlighten us about a candidate. I know I've read somewhere that red reflects a "Get It Done" personality. They're hard working, dependable and decisive. 

Yellow, if I recall, is for deep thinkers with strong leadership qualities. Or is that blue? I don't remember. But I know colors mean something. Maybe I shouldn't rely on my hazy recollection of color to determine elected officials.

That leaves the size of the sign. Most of the signs had uniform dimensions, approximately 24" x 18." Within that range there were variances. Candidates with tighter budgets opted for 24" x 9." Entrants with bigger budgets, like ones who could afford robocalls, went with the slightly larger 36" x 24" size.

Then, there's always one candidate with the super-sized ego who displays a sign that dwarfs all others. That candidate in our district was Brad "Bubba" Urdan, a Republican running for State Representative.

Bubba's sign towered above the other candidates by at least 30 feet. Well, at least it appeared that way through my windshield.

In reality, the sign was composed of five individual letters that made up his name. Each letter was approximately five feet tall. The letters were strategically placed on a grassy knoll in a high traffic location. If Bubba were campaigning in Los Angeles, I'm sure his sign would have been on Mount Lee next to "HOLLYWOOD."

The enormous "BUBBA" sign certainly did grab my attention, but it left me no more informed about the candidate than the adjoining puny signs. It was still just a name, albeit a very large name.

So, did Bubba's size strategy work?

No. Bubba took only 14% of the vote.

The winner, with 22% of the vote, was Klint Kesto. Ironically, his small, meager sign, sat on the hill in the shadows of the giant "BUBBA" sign.

Future political candidates take heed. As the next round of elections approach, you may want to put your hard earned Super Pac funds toward something other than gigantic campaign signage. What that "something" may be, I do not know.

But, I can say with some certainty, that regarding signs, "size doesn't matter."

Just ask Bubba.

What's Buried in Vegas, Stays in Vegas

Loading the cart can be tricky.  You must stack, crimp and reposition.

While recently perusing the Las Vegas Review-Journal, I noticed that Nevada legislators derailed a proposed bill to levy a 5 cent deposit on beverage containers. That's a crime, because what's buried in a landfill, stays in a landfill. Well, at least a plastic bottle will for about 700 years, if you believe the State of California's Web site, CalRecycle.

Maybe Nevada lawmakers are unaware of the benefits. According to Brigham Young University,recycling a single aluminum can will save enough energy to run a TV set for three hours. That's like watching "Casino" for free - with two minutes to spare.

No matter, these politicians should reconsider. In Michigan, our deposit law seems to have reduced litter. Take a leisurely drive up I-75. You're more likely to find a stray penguin on the side of the road than a Dr. Pepper can that could fetch 10 cents.

Perhaps policy makers around Las Vegas are concerned that recycling will place too much of a burden on its populace. If so, do not fear - or loathe. As a seasoned recycler, I offer several tips to ease any trepidation.

Storage Chores

When a deposit law is implemented, the first concern is what to do with all those returnables.

A common method is to toss them in a garbage can fitted with a plastic bag. I prefer Hefty - endorsed for years by Jonathan Winters, and known for its two-ply system with odor block technology. If cutting-edge liners are unaffordable, there's no shame in using brown paper sacks. 



Before stowing, it's essential to make sure the containers are completely drained. If not, the liquid will spill out, coating them with a sticky residue that will remain on your hands for decades - similar to the maple syrup bottles at IHOP.

As redemption machines are different for bottles and cans, it is beneficial to store them separately. If this seems too troublesome, don't worry; dump them all in one big mishmash. And hope your spouse is the one who makes the trip to the recycling center.

Regarding return frequency, weekly trips are recommended. Left unchecked, empties can multiply like mold on a shower curtain at a Bulgarian Youth Hostel.

Driving Miss Empty

The commute to the supermarket must be slow and focused to avoid spilling the cargo. That means no cell calls. No texting. No scrolling on your iPod to find a 'bangin' song by Pitbull.

Regardless of how careful your drive, when the vehicle door opens, invariably several bottles will tumble out and shatter on the pavement. A teen in a red vest, whose only care in the world was 'what sub to get at Jimmy John's,' will shoot you a palpable glare. Ignore the lad and go about your business.

Loading the shopping cart can be tricky. You must stack, crimp, and reposition. At all cost, try to fit all the bags in one buggy. Nothing makes you look more transient than pushing one cart while pulling another.

You're now ready to break for the store entrance. Walk quickly, as if everyone were staring at you - because they will be.

Rise of the Bottle Machines 



The apparatus has a square body, digital forehead and wide mouth ...

At 6 feet 3 inches tall, the redemption machine is nothing less than intimidating. The apparatus has a square body, digital forehead and wide mouth. If it reminds you of a 1960s sci-fi robot, you wouldn't be alone - "Crush, Kill, Destroy."

The directions are simple. Place the can or bottle into the hole. Watch it disappear. Repeat.

An unauthorized barcode may result in a rejection. So be smart and check the label. If you're trying to scan a bottle of Pond Hopper Double Pale Ale that your Belgium friend left at the party, you're asking for trouble.

Watching the empties swirl around is mesmerizing. You will begin to drift, losing track of time and reality. A magical place will enter your mind - a pristine beach, a fertile valley, the all-you-can-eat salad bar at The Olive Garden.

As you work, inevitably someone will walk up holding a small bag of empties.

Look away! Do not make eye contact, as the worst thing you can do is let that person "take cuts." There's no guarantee this pedestrian line jumper has the brainpower to operate the machine.

You may encounter a flashing message that reads "Bins Full - Call for Service." Beware - the button connects to the doorbell of a butcher in Breitbrunn, Germany. Ringing it will prompt Frau Raabe to yell at her husband.

"Heinz, answer the door, it may be a customer starved for Schnitzel!"

Before leaving, use the Lysol No-Hand Soap Dispenser. It's there for a reason.

Greening Las Vegas

If Nevada lawmakers are still afraid that recycling lacks community support, they need to think out of the box.

Appeal to the senses of risk and greed - tailor the redemption machines to operate like slots.

Increase the deposit amount to 50 cents, then add the extra coinage to a progressive payout. Now when empties are returned, there's some thrill and excitement.

After the first highly publicized jackpot, the masses will line up as if they're receiving water from the fountain of youth.

Problem solved - a clean Sin City, happy recyclers and guilt-free garbage dumps.