I had a craving for Thai food, and instead of ordering in like a sane adult, I decided to Thai Hard—with a Vengeance. I was racing against a ticking bomb in the kitchen, seconds from exploding. Okay, maybe it was just the oven timer—but if I didn’t curry up, I was pretty sure it was going to start raining snow peas like flaming shrapnel.
The result? Thai green curry so fabulous it practically demanded a suit and Thai just to eat it. Instead, I attended dinner in my finest “It’s On Like Donkey Kong” t-shirt and a pair of Sesame Street fleece pajama bottoms my girlfriend gave me. Underdressed? Probably. I cooked Thai, not Hong Kong cuisine—and the Donkey Kong on my shirt looked just as confused as I was underdressed. It was off like Donkey Kong, and the curry knew it. Also, I’m fairly certain sesame oil isn’t sourced from Sesame Street. I mean, for one, a bird as large as Big Bird probably would’ve eaten all the sesame seeds needed to make it—as well as a one-ton bag of wontons.
For the appetizer, I served Thai egg drop soup—because obviously, I had to “egg drop it like it’s hot.” Pro tip: do not actually drop it. Not unless you’re into second-degree burns or ruining a perfectly good pair of Sesame Sleepers.
As a side, I paired the curry with veggie dumplings—because every dumpling deserves a second shot at love—and some spring rolls so spring-loaded, even my mattress got jealous. Although, let’s be honest, it was already feeling overlooked thanks to my pajamas. My mattress can be real Elmo-tional like that.
The meal? To Thai for. The curry, simmered in coconut milk and green chilies, was so rich it could’ve made takeout cry—or just my mattress. I almost considered quitting my job and becoming a curry courier. Of course, my first delivery would’ve been to Sesame Street—if they hadn’t already invited themselves to dinner.
Grover claimed he was just doing “quality control,” which mostly involved holding a clipboard and sampling things with dramatic flair. Ernie brought chopsticks but used a rubber ducky as a spoon, and Bert kept stressing about how much he was supposed to tip me—and why we weren’t having food from Hong Kong instead. By the time they were done, there wasn’t much left to share—just one sad dumpling, which Oscar the Grouch snagged, then immediately complained about. Still down in the dumps, as always.
Oh, and the fortune cookies? Let’s just say they met an unfortunate end at the hands of a certain dark blue menace. He claims he was looking for something to read. I should’ve known better. Next time, I’m locking dessert in the cookie jar—with a phadlock. And maybe a warning label: Not for Cookie Monsters.
I swear he left crumbs shaped like alphabets on the floor. I’m still finding C’s in the rug. And as difficult as it’s been to Swiffer the carpet, at least the oven didn’t explode and make an even bigger mess. Though honestly, that might’ve been the only thing scary enough to keep Cookie Monster away.
I never got to read my fortune. But I imagine it would’ve gone something like:
“This fortune is brought to you by the letter ‘X.’ (You know, like that dumpling who ghosted me.) And your lucky numbers are: 1… ah, ah, ah.”
It was a meal to remember, pajamas and all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to explain to my mattress why it wasn’t invited.
