Thursday, December 22, 2005
Margy and I have nothing against chicken. Really. We like it sometimes. We just don't eat it very often.
I will say this: Apart from the essential dinnertime staple of crispy chicken cutlets, I don't really have any use for boneless breasts, the dullest meat going. So when we do chicken in our house, it's almost always on the bone -- and yes, we like the dark meat.
I had some thighs and drumsticks in the freezer, and they were dangerously close to wearing out their welcome, so it was time for them to cross the road (to the oven). I whipped up a quick faux-barbecue sauce with onion, garlic, ketchup, vinegar, mustard powder, brown sugar, and chipotle powder -- I was drinking a beer at the time and some of it might have fallen into the saucepan -- while I began baking the chicken pieces in a 400-degree oven, naked save a little S&P. After they'd baked for 20 minutes, I brushed the pieces with the sauce, and cooked them another 20 or 25 minutes until they were done, basting them once more about 10 minutes before I pulled them.
Margy actually walked in the door as I was mopping up excellent Italian vinegar and bits of glass from the floor near the pantry. Yeah, clumsy me. But I quickly snapped back into action and made some little home-fry/french-fry-type things and steamed broccoli and got everything to the table before she could say, "You know, I walked another two hours today..."
The transit strike and the chicken strike are over.