kimberliah…

Most people inherit some type of trait or features from their parents.  Whether it be the slope of their nose, an overlapping toe or a shitty cow lick… it’s obvious where they got it from.  These many similarities do not only have to run skin deep, though…

Image Credit: www.tjhtees.com

If there was ever any question whether I was my Mother’s daughter…. That doubt was completely laid to rest last night, over a hot skillet.  I was making dinner, just like I do every other night… when I’ve actually remembered to take some kind of meat type thing out of the freezer.   I was in my own little world… chopping, stirring, seasoning and occasionally talking shit to The Beast as he lay sprawled out at my feet.  As my skillet began to reach its maximum occupancy, I decided that it was time to slow my roll… I continued to stir, staring into my concoction.  Something about this pairing o’ foods looked vaguely familiar…  As the realization of of my creation’s identity sunk in, I shook my head no…. This couldn’t be.  The one dish that my father and I had successfully picketed once… was staring at me from the pan.

Scooter Surprise.

Oh.. crap.  How could this happen?

I feel like the dish that is “Scooter Surprise” needs 2 entirely separate explanations.

First, the actual meal.  Scooter Surprise was a dish concocted by my Mother.  It was cheap, easy and virtually tasteless.  My Dad and I absolutely hated Scooter Surprise.  The raw hatred I remember feeling towards Scooter Surprise, at that young an age, was deep.  When I would see it placed in front of me, Internal Kim would violently throw herself from the chair, flail wildly about on the floor and possibly attempt to bite my Mother’s shin.  However External Army Brat Kim would merely sit quietly, pushing the tasteless crap around my plate while attempting to hide some of it inside my glass of milk before finally choking the rest down.  My Dad would react likewise.  Our unified hate towards Scooter Surprise was unwavering.

I remember one certain night in particular, that fateful dish was once again placed before us.  I turned my watery eyes towards my Dad… he glanced from me to his plate and angrily threw his fork towards our cocker spaniel… as Harley retreated from the silver projectile my Dad loudly declared our independence from Scooter Surprise.  Ronald McDonald stepped in, hosting our dinner that night and I dreamed sweet dreams of a Scooter Surprise-less world.

Scooter Surprise had never entered my line of sight again… until last night.

Ready for explanation number 2?  The name… because I KNOW you’re wondering where the hell that name could have originated from.  What kind of surprise?  SCOOTER surprise?  Like that thing the kids ride around on?  How the hell did that play into this?

Scooter was my Mom’s nickname, as given by my West Virginia hillbilly kinsfolk peoples… My Dad was “Dooter” and I…… I was deemed “Cooter”  I was called Cooter for almost 2 decades, before I realized that I was being referred to as a part of the female anatomy.

So, thanks… West Virginia hillbilly kinsfolk peoples, for basically calling me a vagina my entire life.

…and thanks Mom for somehow embedding Scooter Surprise into my DNA

SCOOTER SURPRISE RECIPE

Throw some thawed ground beef into the biggest damned skillet you possess.  If you know someone with a larger skillet, borrow theirs. *They can be paid back with copious amounts of completed SS.

Heat that shit up

Remember that you’re supposed to be cutting potatoes up… also remember that you’re supposed to be listening to your 2nd grader read aloud.

Place 2nd grader with book on counter, next to the un-cut potatoes.

Explain to 2nd grader that they’re just potatoes and they won’t hurt him.

Move all shady looking potatoes a few feet away, at 2nd graders request.

“Please you get those away from me”

Cut, listen, cut, listen, cut, listen

Throw tiny potato cubes into massive skillet.  Cook that shit

Add onions, jalapenos and whatever else you can find in the little Tupperware containers inside your fridge.

Stir that shit.  Serve that shit.

You’re Welcome.