Breasts

Now that I have your attention- I am talking about chicken breasts you pervs. If you clicked onto this blog with hopes of it being about boobs- you need to get laid.

So chicken petrifies me.

I have grown up on a staple diet of chicken in various forms, at least twice a week, every week since birth. My mom makes some mean chicken and over the years as our taste buds got a bit more refined, her chicken got a bit more complicated and wonderful. But overall, it is chicken.

You would think that having grown up in such a way would make me very comfortable in chicken preparation (or in a kitchen for that matter). You are wrong.

I would say that one of my parents biggest laments about grown-up me is that I am a pariah in the kitchen.

I am trying, and I am slowly learning because it annoys the fuck out of me to have my fiancé cook every meal and then gloat in the aftermath of a delicious plate. He is just so good at it whereas I am very tepid. The other night after a delicious meal I said “I want something chocolately” he disappeared into the kitchen and emerged 20 minutes later with perfectly baked flourless chocolate cakes in individual ramekins- I didn’t even know what you could use a ramekin for. So I say “wow, where did you find this recipe” and he says “I made it up in my head.”

If I made up flourless chocolate cake in my head, I would be serving you chocolate baked scrambled eggs at the end of the baking.

But the great thing about all of my cooking woes is that it doesn’t stop me from being a GREAT eater. So who is laughing at the end. I am. Me and my ever growing ass.

So, onwards we go- I am really really trying to cook more. I don’t want to end up being that girl who eats Kraft Dinner when left to her own devices so I have been slowly attempting more and more recipes. I usually do side dishes and opt to leave the meat to my fiancé who not only is a prodigy in the kitchen but also has a special gift for meats (of course right?). I have gone from the easier, guacamole and salsa sauces to a more advanced bean dish and different salads (I am really good with salads- always have been- so I guess that is one thing I can do). I have gotten good at certain soups and tofu dishes, I have tried a few fish plates and have even delved into sausage- once.

But there is something about chicken that makes me just plain uncomfortable. Maybe it is that my friend once got food poisoned from uncooked chicken and was sick for almost a year- and very descriptive of her illness- making it all the more frightening. Maybe it is that my chicken master partner is sure to silently judge my less than perfect chicken should I bother to try, or maybe it is the pink, slimy, blobs that you have to manhandle. Whatever it is- chicken has not been my friend.

Last night I was feeling ambitious and brave having trapped a large beetle in my house under a jar instead of fleeing the house, hands flailing screaming bloody murder like I usually would. I felt a surge of calmness and decided to surprise my fiancé and make him dinner for once. I made a wicked quinoa dill salad and then grabbed the package of breasts, took a deep breath and ripped into it.

Now, I cant take full credit for the AMAZING chicken that came out of my marinade because all I really did was put the breasts in a bag with my self-made marinade and then smushed the marinade into the chicken and put it in the fridge. He barbequed, it is true, but only because I am always afraid of blowing myself up while lighting a BBQ alone- and because I am afraid of chicken, as I have mentioned- in case you didn’t get it yet. So I don’t like cooking chicken- ok? That is my thesis.

The end.