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Confessions of a Ruthless Chicken Cook

Updated on May 13, 2012

Philosophy of Cooking

Hands still red from blood, she trembled as she washed off the last bit of evidence but she could not wash off that gnawing feeling that clawed at her as she absent-mindedly let the water run down the funnel that had a hypnotic effect on Artie. She could not live with this on her conscience. She ran to the site where the body lay and anointed it with holy oil, sprinkled it with flowery petals and then poured some yogurt over it. She screamed to the lord praying the entire time for this soul to be liberated into the heavens and for his holiness to forgive her for this heinous act. Sprinkling some rice and salt, she recited a prayer meant to serve as the departing soul’s last rites and gently laid it into a container.

Given her open-minded, religious and philosophical beliefs, she didn’t know whether to respect this finished life with prayers from the Christian, Hindu, or Buddhist tradition. She chanted in tongues until she sensed that it rested in peace.

Finally, with great reluctance she slipped the container into the dark recesses of what looked like an oven.

After 30 minutes or so she wondered if she should let things be and throw everything out. She was torn beyond belief. Never again, Never again, she swore to herself. In repentance she took the container out and saw the flesh and blood. Oh, it was food color that she had poured recklessly onto the chicken as it sat looking so smug. Still looking away, she poured three tablespoons of melted butter, sea salt, pepper, and brushed it with tandoori paste. Then she added a paste of garlic, ginger, and onions. Lastly she sprinkled a dash of cinnamon and cilantro leaves. The chicken sat in that state with its wing sticking out from the colander’s top hole. Artie had wrestled with the chicken for a bit and had managed to tear apart a wing and a leg and then she just let it go!

After a break, she returned to the battle ground and added some raspberry vinaigrette dressing on top of what remained of the chicken. She brushed streaks of yogurt as if painting a story. She used a brush to paint it with some more food color and a couple of additional tablespoons of tandoori past. The chicken began to look like it was in red and white costume. After 60 or so minutes of soaking in this paste, it was placed into a rectangular, white corning ware dish and stuck into the oven and cooked at 375 degrees for an hour.

Artie's circle of friends were due to arrive any minute. Her hands were still stained, she didn't know if she ought to share the intricacies of what it takes to rip chicken skin off and to cut through its legs and wings. Or should she stick to cleaned, skinless thin strips of chicken breast? As she came out fresh out of the shower with no more telling signs of the Artie wrestles chicken episode, she sat back on her favorite chair sipping a cabernet and thanking her lucky stars that she did not have to go through this more than once in a blue moon.

BTW, among the recipies Artie recommends are:

http://abclocal.go.com/wls/story?section=resources/lifestyle_community/food/recipes&id=7706982

http://southernfood.about.com/od/chickenbreastrecipes/r/r80410a.htm


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