Failed experiment No. 1,324: Homemade Ketchup

After 33 years of life on this earth it has finally (hallelujah!) occurred to me that I do Some Very Stupid Things about 51 percent of the time. This means that about 17 years of my life have been spent doing things that are less than intelligent. Seventeen years. It's like I have a mentally disabled teenager living inside me.

Of course, I never realize how stupid the thing is until way, way after. Observe:

• "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to drink from that elderly homeless man's whisky bottle back in 1997. Another cold sore! Ugh!"

• "Why did I ever work at Eddie Bauer? I HATE their clothes (and p.s. I ain't looking for no lady friend, neither)."

• "What are all these 'learn to dance like a Latin temptress' DVDs in my DVD closet? What's this 'Irish-Stepdancing for Beginners'? When did I spend $200 on dance DVDs ... oh .... right. My 'lose weight while dancing' phase. This one still has the wrapper on it."

• "I should really make some homemade ketchup and have a taste test and then blog about it. That would be SO cool!"

This last lapse in intelligence happened two nights ago. My sister, Angela, was in town and I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to indulge my recent desire to have a ketchup taste test.

A ketchup taste test, people.

What regular person cares about ketchup so much that they'd have a taste test? No one. Not even me. (And I'm guessing not even that poor d-bag dressed as a ketchup bottle above). However, I read somewhere that Gordon Ramsay makes homemade ketchup for his perfect wife and children — so this means homemade ketchup is now the equivalent of the body and blood of Christ in my book.

For weeks I've been on the lookout for a red ketchup squeeze bottle — like the ones you see at fry huts and at picnics (and on that poor, poor d-bag). Finding this would be a major sign that this taste test is something I'm destined to do.

On Friday, I settled for a clear condiment bottle for $1.99 at Bed, Bath & Beyond. Why wait for a sign?

I used this recipe: Homemade Ketchup at Epicurious.com. I bought the ingredients. I was ready to go.

On Friday night we planned to eat Gordon Ramsay burgers on the grill, and I was going to up the ante and make homemade French fries (also on the grill). THEN I was going to take my homemade ketchup, Heinz ketchup, and my favorite Publix Organic Ketchup and have Angela and Chuck try each one to tell me which was their favorite (expected response? "Why this ketchup is pure heaven! Why, it's yours! Your ketchup is better than them all! Throw out these bottles! You have saved our family $1.59 in monthly ketchup bills!"

Two thoughts occurred to me at the time:

1.) It's really late. I need 3 hours to make this ketchup. I only have an hour till Chuck is home. .... Hmmm .... !!! .... I can put it in the freezer to cool!

2.) Is there such a thing as French fries on the grill? Maybe I should Google that.

Here's how it all went down:

• 7 p.m.: Start combining ingredients in saucepan as Angela makes homemade coleslaw and the Gordon burgers.

• 7:03 p.m.: Silently congratulate self for being "just like Martha." Imagine self in ketchup-making contest. Imagine shooting blasé comments at friends and acquaintances, "Oh, yes. I make my own ketchup. SO much better for you. SO tasty too."

• 7:20 p.m.: Re-read the chapter on ketchup in "The Man Who Ate Everything" while waiting for ingredients to reduce.

• 7:21 p.m.: Imagine my face on a ketchup label. "Liz's Ketchup" ... or maybe it should be more quaint like "Elizabeth's Catsup" ... or ... oh! ... I could put my cats' faces on the label and call it "Cats-up" ... oh, Liz, you are way too awesome.

• 8:15 p.m.: Lower head over saucepan to take in homemade scents of heaven.

• 8:15 p.m.: Pull head back in utter revulsion. Concoction smells of dirty feet and sugar.

• 8:15 p.m.: Start to worry. "Is this supposed to be orange?"

• 8:16 p.m.: It's rustic. It's just rustic.

• 8:20 p.m.: Pour reduced mixture into blender. Hit puree. Watch helplessly as boiling hot tomato crap splashes all over my kitchen wall, counter, and my very sensitive hands.

• 8:20 p.m.: "Angela!"

• 8:21 p.m.: Try to calm myself by silently singing the theme song to "The F-Word" while I watch my sister clean up the area (and my hands).

• 8:21 p.m.-8:45 p.m.: Mutter.

• 8:45 p.m.: Chuck comes home.

• 8:46 p.m.: Sister explains what happened.

• 8:50 p.m.: Stupid orange, stinky ketchup goes in the stupid clear container and into the stupid fridge.

• 8:51 p.m.: I decide I will never taste it.

• 9:30 p.m.: Chuck lavishes praise on Angela's Gordon burger and gluttonously devours her coleslaw from serving bowl.

• Present time: "Ketchup" remains in fridge, where it will continue to sit until I notice mold growing on it.

Oh, and don't ask about the "fries on the grill" ... actually, let me just sum it up real quick: Couldn't find a recipe so instead coated Idaho potato wedges in olive oil, salt, pepper and fresh flat-leaf parsley. Made cute aluminum foil envelopes for the potatoes. Put potatoes on the grill. Cute envelope tore. Grease fire from too much olive oil. More panic. Fries get transferred from the on-fire Weber and thrown in the oven in a half-hearted attempt to redeem myself. "Fries" (ie., glossy potato wedges with pieces of parsley stuck to them) taste amazingly OK but, of course, they really needed some ketchup.

Free Blog Counter