Drew Magary’s Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday at Defector during the NFL season. Got something you wanna contribute? Email the Roo. And buy Drew’s book, The Night The Lights Went Out, through here.
It’s the early 2000s, and lifestyle magnate Martha Stewart has done a very bad thing. The Securities and Exchange Commission just opened a far-ranging investigation into biotech firm ImClone after its founder, Sam Waksal, divested himself of company stock right before the FDA announced that it had rejected ImClone’s application for a drug called Erbitux. Ever considerate, Waksal tipped off a number of fellow investors to dump their shares before the news hit. Stewart was one of those investors.
This is a good old-fashioned insider trading scandal, and it comes at time in pop culture when America’s most famous women—Britney Spears being the foremost case study—are subjected to inhumane levels of both personal and professional scrutiny whenever they make a mistake. Especially if they make a mistake. So when Stewart finds herself implicated in what would have been an otherwise dry bit of news relegated to the business section, she becomes a public villain in an instant. The masses want blood. They want to see the former model turned “doyenne of domesticity”—for the rest of my life, I would never hear the word “doyenne” used in reference to any other person but Stewart—pay for what she’s done. Her life is too perfect, her wealth too vast. This woman deserves to face justice, even if the average New York Post reader is unable to explain her crimes in any coherent fashion. They just want Martha to squirm.
Lucky for them, CBS morning show host Jane Clayson is ready to make that happen. Clayson uses Stewart’s usual cooking segment on This Morning as an opportunity to grill her about the scandal. In a historically awkward segment, Clayson asks one probing question after another while Stewart valiantly attempts to make a salad. Before Clayson and Stewart even appear on camera, you hear the latter chopping vegetables over the mic. Loudly. Stewart is holding a big knife, and that she’s bringing it down on her cutting board like she wants to cut through the board itself. Chop, chop, chop. We cut to the studio and Stewart is slicing through a poor, defenseless heads of lettuce with all the intensity of Jalen Carter off the snap. Her knife is so big. Norman Bates’s mother would approve of her cutlery choices. Chop, chop, chop.
Clayson is undeterred, and says to Stewart, “I know that image is so important for you and everything you’ve created over the years. In the midst of all this, the stock price of [ImClone] has dropped somewhat. How much of a concern is that for you?”
Stewart, still chop-chop-chopping away, does as best she can to give a dignified answer. She tells Clayson (and America), “I have been the subject of very favorable reporting and very unfavorable reporting throughout the years. This is not new to me. And I choose to go ahead with my work. I concentrate on the good work that our company does. My employees and I are hard at work at making our company the best omnimedia company on the world, Jane. And we will continue to do that. And I want to focus on my salad.”
Clayson tries one more question, but no one will remember it. All they’ll remember is Martha Stewart focusing on her salad. My wife and I will use “I want to focus on my salad” as an in-joke anytime either one of us wants to change the subject. For her part, Stewart will serve five months in a minimum-security prison before returning to her perch as CEO of Martha Stewart Living. After that, she will remain a free woman, accruing a net worth now estimated at $400 million.
It’s the week before Super Bowl 59. The weather is foul, my wife is under the weather, and news from the outside world is discouraging to say the least. I find myself with little to do, and few good options to assuage my boredom. So I channel my inner Martha and decide to make a big Sunday dinner for my wife and sons. On the menu tonight will be roast chicken.
I’m using a recipe from Barefoot Contessa proprietor Ina Garten, who used the trail that Stewart blazed to fashion a cooking empire of her own. There was a point in time where I held an imaginary grudge against Garten for her Hamptons-based lifestyle aesthetic, similar to the grudge I held against Stewart for her Westport-based lifestyle aesthetic. Oh, aren’t you both a couple of Polly Perfects? But I gave that beef up ages ago after realizing that Garten isn’t some haughty queen who needs to be taken down a peg, but a charming woman who has a fascinating backstory and whose recipes are always money in the bank.
I put a free-range bird from the grocery store out on the counter to temper. It’s got a long body: one you’d see more often from a commercially prepped duck or a goose than the usual, hormone-addled, plumped-up, grocery-store chicken. I make a loose mise en place by filling a small bowl with kosher salt and pepper, and then cutting up two fat onions, a whole head of garlic, and two lemons. I also cut off a piece of cooking twine to truss the legs of the chicken before I put it in the oven. We bought this roll of twine years ago and it’s still got plenty more slack to give. I doubt we will ever need to buy another one. I toss some of the lemon and the onions into a baking dish and then coat it all in salt, pepper, and olive oil. “Good” olive oil, as Garten mandates. I think this one counts as good. The label looks fancy enough.
At the sink, I take the chicken out of its shrink wrap and dry it off as best I can. The next pleasant experience I have handling raw chicken will be the first, but I still pat this sucker down with as many paper towels as it’ll absorb. After that, I salt it like the road. I place the chicken on top of the onion and lemons and then stuff its cavity with two lemon wedges and all of the garlic. Then I tie up the legs and douse it all in another generous layer of salt, pepper, and olive oil. To prevent scorching, I pour some boxed chicken stock into the bottom of the dish, and then I stick the dish in the oven.
Next up: gravy. I throw a fat hunk of butter into a saucepan and melt it down, adding a few spoonfuls of flour to make a roux. Whoever invented roux was the truest doyenne. Once the roux turns chocolate-brown in the bottom of the pan, I add more of the chicken broth to it. Then I check the oven. The bird is cooking exactly as I’d hoped it would. The skin is browning and bubbling a little. The scent of the meat and of the juices pooling in the bottom of the dish begin to perfume the kitchen. I lost my sense of smell years ago, but I can guess at what’s in the air: softening garlic, sizzling oil, crackling, fatty bits of skin.
I go to the oven and stare. I am focused on my chicken. Whatever is going on outside of this kitchen isn’t of my concern. There is only me and Sunday dinner. If anyone tries to ambush me with problems, I’ll brush them off like Martha did. During that viral cooking segment 23 years ago, Martha told Jane Grayson that what was happening to her was just “ridiculousness.” And you know what, Martha? That’s a good word for what’s happening right now. This shit is fucking ridiculous.
My wife walks into the kitchen. Given that she still possesses full use of her nose, the smell from the oven gets her immediate attention.
“Oooh, what’s cookin’? You making the engagement chicken?”
Indeed I am, dear. I love it when people get excited for something I’m cooking. I prep some potatoes and broccoli to roast, and then I go pop a gummy and an N/A beer, in that order.
The chicken is ready. Internal temperature of 165 on the nose. I take the bird out of the oven and transfer it over to a large cutting board. Then I go back to the baking dish to marvel at the roasted lemons and onions swimming in luscious jus. I spoon out some of the schmaltz into our kitchen fat jar and then, using oven mitts, I dump the remaining contents of the baking dish into the gravy starter and give it a loving stir. You cook as long as I have and you can judge your handiwork by the color it takes on. This gravy is deep brown and silky smooth. The surface of it gives off a glamorous sheen. Ina, you glorious minx, you. You’ve done it again.
The boys set the table as I carve the chicken on the cutting board with a big honking kitchen knife. Chop, chop, chop. The juices run clear, the meat cuts perfectly tender. I plate my own serving and go heavy on the gravy. You would, too. When I sit down and take a bite, I tell my wife that I think this is the best gravy I’ve ever made. My wife is used to hearing me compliment myself out loud. Usually it bores her to death. This time, instead, she offers vigorous confirmation. The kids do too, as does the dog after I let him lick my plate clean. This really is some fine-ass chicken and gravy. My wife doesn’t feel quite as lousy as she did before. She feels warm and happy. Loved.
What a great power it is to make another person feel loved. There’s a world out there that you and I have little control over. America, in particular, is a problem I can never solve. But in my home, and in yours, there is another world. Smaller. More manageable. You can accomplish things in this world. You can change lives, even. It’s in this world where you’ll find true love, true progress, and true hope. Also, a good dinner.
The Super Bowl is this Sunday. And while I can do my best to focus on the game and not the prevailing circumstances outside of it, there’s no way to cordon off any sporting event from the reality in which it takes place. This very website was predicated on that fact, and it remains so. To consume American football is to consume the rest of America’s horseshit. I’ve got a big enough appetite for the former to stomach the latter.
I’ve also got dinner to make. My mom and my sister’s family are coming down to celebrate my nephew’s birthday. The occasion calls for chili, naturally. It also calls for Doritos, potato chips, dip, wings, cookies, cake, and a second entrée of chicken shawarma. OK, and a salad. Fine.
Now that’s a whole lotta dinner to focus on, and I’ll be focusing intently on it. Ask me about what’s going on out there—about politics, about the potential for my IRA to shrink down to nothing, about whether or not any of us will even still be here a year from now—and I’ll give you a polite answer. But my mind won’t have strayed from my big honking knife slicing its way through a jalapeno. You won’t steal my focus. You won’t stop me from living. No one will. It’s the Super Bowl, so let’s all live a little. This is your Super Bowl Jamboroo, and I’m fucking starving. HIT THE MUSIC.
Time to dig in.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms. And for the playoffs, I PICK the games, because doing so makes me strong and brave.
Five Throwgasms
Chiefs (-1.5) 28, Eagles 23. OK, so this isn’t the matchup that a lot of us narrative snobs were hoping for. But this game DOES feature two scrimmage-dominant teams who combined to win 29 games during the regular season. Oh, and Kansas City is attempting the first threepeat in Super Bowl history, which would cause Tom Brady to swallow his own tongue in the broadcast booth if it goes down. I can roll with that. I’m genuinely excited for this game. Seven months without football after that? Less so.
In previous years, I would’ve thrown some money down on one of these teams to add a little juice to the proceedings. But making any wager on any game really does color my view of it. I know because I was EXTREMELY pissed off that the refs cost me $40 when the Chiefs and Eagles met in this same game two years ago. Even that little bit of scratch was enough to cloud my journalist’s eye for what transpired on the field. So I’m watching this fucker cold: football for the sake of football. Also I’ll pop a gummy, which livens things up enough on its own. I like my gummies like I like my interior linemen: strong. Now let’s move on to other football business:
• If you’re desperate, you could frame this Super Bowl matchup as the revenge of the low-value positions. The Giants let Saquon Barkley walk because he was a RB, only to see him instantly live up to his No. 2 overall pick status by racking up over 2,000 yards rushing on the ground in the regular season. As a team, the Eagles rushed for over 3,000 yards in that same time frame. Oh, and look who came alive for the Chiefs during the playoffs? It’s Travis Swifte, whose contract is just like every other tight end’s in that it doesn’t crack the league’s top 50 in terms of AAV. And the Chiefs don’t need a stalwart left tackle because their guards and center are such studs.
Over on the other side of the ball, we’ve got two defenses that feature tackles as their top pass-rushers, and arguably the two best linebacking corps in the entire sport. Will any of this prevent other teams from overvaluing mid-level QBs, or compel them to draft Ashton Jeanty No. 1 overall come spring? Fuck no, it won't. Everyone will still want a Mahomes to call their own. But this does mean that Trey Smith is gonna get fucking PAID a month and change from now.
• Myles Garrett issued out an incredibly polite trade request this week that essentially boiled down to “Please let me out of this shithole so that I can remember what winning feels like.” Cleveland, being Cleveland, has already denied the request. But could the Browns find a way to trade Deshaun Watson instead? Mike Sando over at The Athletic thought this idea all the way out, including this exchange with an anonymous league exec:
“Carolina should do it,” a third exec said. “So should the Patriots.”
OK, but how much draft capital would you need to absorb up to $92 million in salary for a player you’re going to cut?
“The conversation starts with multiple 1s,” this exec said. “Maybe less if Cleveland wants to pay salary.”
I doubt that a deal like this ever materializes, but it’s nasty fun to think about the Browns trading away their future to get Watson, and then having to trade their future again just to get rid of him. The circle of life rarely closes so neatly.
Two weeks ago: 1-1
Overall: 6-6
Drew’s Chili Recipe
You know the drill. I post this every year, and I consider this recipe merely a starting point. I’m gonna use a chuck roast instead of ground meat this weekend, but you’re not similarly obligated. It’s your chili pot, therefore your rules. Don’t add, like, M&M’s to it or anything, but otherwise go ahead and follow your instincts.
FOR THE CHILI:
2 pounds ground beef or chicken, at least 20% fat
1 onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, chopped
1 shallot, chopped (ANNUAL NOTE: Shallots are the things that make restaurant food taste like restaurant food.)
1 jalapeno, chopped
1 large can crushed tomatoes
1 small can tomato paste
1 can tall red kidney beans, drained
1 can corn, drained
1 can beer
1 can chicken broth
1 tsp liquid smoke
1 tsp sugar
1 tbsp fennel seed
2 tbsp cumin (add more at end if necessary)
2 tbsp chili powder (add more at end if necessary)
1/4 cup white vinegar
Salt & Pepper to taste
Ashes from a joint (optional)
Lotta Frank’s Hot Sauce
2 glugs olive oil
FOR THE SIDES:
Shredded cheese
Tortilla chips
Sour cream
Frank’s RedHot sauce
1 bunch scallions, chopped
Beer
Put a big pot on the stove on medium. Pour in the oil. When it’s hot, toss in the onions, garlic, jalapeno, and shallots and stir them around until soft. Toss in the ground meat. Salt and pepper the ground meat in the pot. Sautée the meat until it’s good and brown. Add the tomatoes, beans, corn, beer, broth, liquid smoke, sugar, cumin, chili powder, fennel seed, joint ashes, vinegar, and Frank’s. Bring it to a simmer. Half cover the pot and leave it on low medium heat for 3–4 hours, stirring occasionally and always tasting. The liquid in the pot should reduce into a nice, thick stew. Dip in a chip to see if the chili sticks to it. If it does, it’s ready to serve.
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Dragon,” by King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard! I find it sublime anytime a band name rhymes, and so does reader Mike:
You've featured King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard before here three years ago, and here's one of their singles from their newest album. It's about the world being destroyed by gas guzzlers and giant storms which causes a coven of witches to unleash a dragon on them. I think they've made a big improvement on this album from their last one, and I just can't stop listening to it.
Tell me more about this coven of witches and how I might donate to their political campaign.
Fire This Asshole!
Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we’ll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year’s end or sooner. And now, your current 2024 chopping block:
Robert Saleh—FIRED!
Dennis Allen—FIRED!
Matt Eberflus—FIRED!
Doug Pederson—FIRED!
Jerod Mayo—FIRED!
Antonio Pierce—FIRED!
Mike McCarthy—FIRED! UNWANTED!
Seven heads rolled this season. THAT’S GOOD LUCK! I’m still not over the fact that every team that had a vacancy made a sensible if not outright good hire. Except for Dallas, of course. You fuckers are doomed.
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Eric sends in this story I call BOWELS:
Sabrina Imbler’s blog about normalizing poop eating brought this story to mind. Back when Florida just was a normal amount of crazy, we used to vacation in the Florida Keys. As a lover of tropical sunshine, the tiny islands surrounded by the ocean were my ideal vacation destination. On our last trip, we decided to see the Dry Tortugas and Fort Jefferson. Fort Jefferson is cool as hell, but the real attraction at the Dry Tortugas National Park is the snorkeling.
I don’t remember what I’d eaten for dinner the night before, but it probably involved copious amounts of conch fritters, key lime pie, and fresh fish. The trip from Key West to Dry Tortugas was relatively calm and I didn’t feel much in the way of tummy rumbling, but later, some lower abdominal grumbling let me know that there was going to be a profound bowel movement in my not-too-distant future.
As we walked around the fort, I thought about looking around for a bathroom or going back on the boat. But I love snorkeling and was really anxious to get into the water and maximize my time. After getting the snorkeling gear on, we all jumped into the Gulf of Mexico to look at some pretty fishes. The snorkeling itself was peaceful and uneventful, just swimming around and gawking at beautiful fish and other sea creatures. But about 30 minutes in, the gastric distress level went critical.
By this time, my family had split up, although my youngest was nearby. I looked around for a place to do my dirty deed with the least chance of being observed, and I settled on a group of nearby pilings. I swam into the midst of the pilings and then brought my knees up towards my chest, lowered my swim trunks in back, and cut loose with a Metamucil-infused explosion.
I finished quickly, hitched up my trunks and turned to swim away, but then I stopped. The cloud of fecal chum that erupted from my anus had caught the attention of every last fish, shrimp, and crab in the immediate vicinity. The snorkeling became truly excellent as the local wildlife spent the next 20 seconds or so erasing all the evidence of my deed. Once the feeding frenzy was over, I swam away.
On the return trip to Key West, we talked about what a great day it was and how fantastic the snorkeling was. I related my experience to the rest of the family and got reactions of disgust, amusement, and even jealousy depending on the age and gender of the listener. So the next time you’re snorkeling and you’re not seeing enough bursts of tropical color, a quick burst of brown might make your surroundings more interesting.
Noted.
And Now Let’s Go Down To The Sideline And Check In With Charissa Thompson
“Drew, I ran into Jets quarterback Aaron Rodgers here in New Orleans and asked him how he was doing. He told me that he was in town to celebrate his ‘afterbirthday.’ When I asked Aaron what that meant, he told me, ‘Charissa, we haven’t even begun to unluck the healing capabilities of the human placenta.’ He said he plans to spend the offseason lobbying hospital conglomerates to turn over their discarded afterbirth tissue to him, and not to just throw it away. Then he said to me, very seriously, ‘Our hospitals are the REAL biohazard.’ Back to you, Drew.”
Thank you, Charissa.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
In honor of the Eagles, it’s Pennsylvania Style Ice Premium Beer! From Hamilton:
Like you, I enjoy many cheap beers for the taste, but this is not one of them. The picture is not my own, but I have drank both this and the regular Pennsylvania Style Lager before, and it is a rare case where the ice version is actually less horrible than the regular one. It doesn't matter though, as both are among the five or so worst beers I've had in my life.
I believe you. Zero chance I trust anything that comes in a can that looks like that. I’d rather drink a can of WD-40.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Titans Fans
The Substance, which will win Demi Moore a much deserved Best Actress trophy a few weeks from now. This is the best movie from 2024 I’ve seen so far. I still have a lot of big titles to knock off my list (The Brutalist, Nickel Boys, and A Real Pain chief among them), but I strongly doubt that any of those other Oscar contenders are as intensely fucked up as this one. Between The Substance and Severance, there’s a little niche of Kaufman-inspired horror out there that’s exactly my kinda shit. Surrealism is both undervalued and underutilized these days, so I’m always gonna patronize any filmmaker who dabbles in it.
And The Substance is very much a horror movie. I cried out EWWW THAT’S SO NASTY at least a dozen times, with a few sequences so gnarly that they echoed the nastiest parts of Paul Verhoeven’s Robocop (that’s a compliment). I was more grossed out than I’d ever been, and yet I didn’t feel like any of the carnage was pointless. Director Coralie Fargeat has herself a point all right. And she doesn’t skimp on the blood, because she doesn’t want to give us horndogs multiple close-up shots of Margaret Qualley’s badonkadunk without inflicting a healthy dose of karmic payback. My only beef with The Substance is that it suffers from the kind of ending where, multiple times, I thought I was looking at the final shot, only for the movie to keep on going. And bleeding. The actual final shot, though? Brilliant. Four stars.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“Sports, sports, sports, sports, sports, sports, sports, sports… Marge, Bart rides up in the front seat today because he's a good guy at sports.”
Enjoy the Super Bowl, everyone.
