I am postponing my after Christmas post to bring you this post.
One of my favorite blogs is http://thepioneerwoman.com/ - seriously, this woman's cooking section will make you believe you can build a house out of shallots and perfectly whipped brandy topping.
In case you didn't know this about me: 1. I hate to cook. It is my least favorite chore, next to scrubbing the underside of the toilet and mopping floors. 2. I never find joy/pride/fulfilment in my own hard work cooking a meal. 3. My A.D.H.D is showcased in full force when I attempt to cook and read recipes. The 4 instructions on the side of a rice a roni box may as well be written in japanese. And forget a more involved recipe, cut butter- umm, what? Like with scissors? Yea, it's that bad.
4. Thank God I'm married to one of the best cooks I know or my family would be screwed. Well not really, I get it done if I HAVE to, but goodness do I HATE to cook. Ok... enough said about that. On to my story.
So reading The Pioneer Woman cooks inspires me greatly. Her amazing pictures make you think you can do anything with food, specifically cooking her exact meals, because her pictures make it look so EASY. So, in attempting to prepare one of her dishes (or a variation of it) I decided to go ahead and prepare her chicken preparation recipe so I can have a couple servings of (essentially boiled) chicken to quickly throw it in my "so easy a cave man can do it" dishes I'm making for the rest of the week.
It's freaking frying/browing chicken and putting it in chicken stock to boil, how hard can it be- RIGHT?
These are all HER Pictures of what it is SUPPOSED to look like:
Ok, so I've already cleaned the kitchen twice tonight and I have a bandaged finger, which I've changed the bandage 3 times tonight, so I refuse to touch the chicken with my right hand. Already foreseeing a problem, wondering if I have any hair coloring gloves.. umm, no such luck. So I grab the stupid chicken breast (with bones, major mistake-tried to save money by buying the crazy chicken) with my left hand and throw it on the flour. And the little chicken ribs stab my fingers. It sends chills down my spine. *note to self, never buy chicken with bones in it again. Guillermo tells me I should probably season it before I put it on the flour, but I refuse to dirty another plate so I tell him to hold it in the sink while I season it. It's like "how many monkeys does it take to put salt and pepper and flour on a chicken"..
And her flour is so even and nicely powdery all over her plate, after my first few peices of chicken my flour is a knappy mess and I feel like I have flour wall paper paste all over my left hand. At this point, I'm slapping the chicken down and if flour gets on it- good, if not, whateve.
I follow her directions to the last detail, look at all that wonderful butter and oil, but in my giant pan it all goes to one side and only one peice of chicken gets in the good stuff, dang it Ree, I don't have a cast iron pot.
Her chicken looks so good I want to lick my monitor and slap Colonel Sanders, but my chicken is turning out tan and doesn't even appear to have flour stuff on it.
Seriously WTH! I should've bought the rotisserie chicken instead of staying up until ten forty five frying/browning chicken. The pioneer woman had me believing I could make my own homemade cinnamon rolls! Appearantly you have to have the skills to be able to split atoms in your kitchen to figure out how to hand make cinnamon rolls. Well, Guillermo says the chicken smells really good, so I guess that means I better go see what's in the dang pot. And as far as picking bones out, I think I'll just put the whole thing in the cuisineart and pulvarize the peice and tell the kids it's like eating watermelon, if they get a hard peice, just spit it out.