I decided yesterday that today I was going to attempt the ultimate comfort food, and all-around best meal on the planet: portuguese chicken soup. So, I emailed my mom, got the recipe, and headed off to the supermarket to buy a chicken. With the two-year old in tow, we hunted all up and down the aisles until we found a whole, frozen chicken.
Feeling supremely self-confident of my cooking skills, I successfully defrosted the chicken this morning, opened my mom's recipe back up, and was faced with a quandary. The recipe called for three to four pieces of chicken, namely, the thighs and wings. Except I was looking at whole, defrosted chicken, and I had no idea how to take the pieces off. I tried pulling gently and asking politely, but nothing happened. Also, the chicken skin had hairs on it, and I was grossed out.
I went to Host Mom, but she had no idea how to do it. So I turned to the internet, found a handy-dandy informative site on how to properly separate a chicken with minimal waste, and felt confident. I picked up the butcher knife.
The next forty-five minutes can only be described as an exercise in utter terror, whereby I pulled, pushed, and twisted until bones snapped and tendons were ripped apart or hacked in two. I was covered in chicken pieces. I was panicking. I was trying not to cry. I was in such a state of disgust and base horror I didn't know what to do with myself. With every terrible screech and squeek (which I didn't realize chicken bodies were capable of producing), I apologized to the chicken for offending it's earthly remains. I cursed everything related to chickens and Portugal that I could think of, and then some others that I made up. Finally, I got off the thighs and a wing, and then gave up before I threw up. I came to the conclusion that 21st century living has softened me.
The soup actually came out just fine (most delicious, if I say so myself, but still not as good as my mother makes it), but the problem now is that there's 3/4 of a deceased (and recently mangled) chicken sitting in the refrigerator and I'm afraid to look at it. I'm also irrationally terrified it's going to jump up and come after me in revenge for what I did to it's limbs.
Pre-cut chicken from here on out.
And now...the second installment of Is It Gay, or Is It German?
The scenario: a giant man wearing ankle boots, socks that come up to mid-thigh, and really short shorts that barely covered his ass. Also sporting a full beard, sideburns, and a leather shirt. Is it gay, or is it German?
4 comments:
Gay German. The only explanation.
I definitely have to go with Gay on this one. Or German. But I think Gay. Or what UE said.
about the left over mangled chicken: put it in a pot, throw a little bit of olive oil(1 tablspoon is enough), a chopped onion, a couple of tomatoes, some pepper, maybe a bay leaf, and a small bottle of BEER. Turn on the stove, let it simmer until the chicken is cooked. Stir it on occasion, and make sure it does not run out of liquid. If it syarts to...add a little bit of beer...drink the rest!! Yummy!!!
Definitely gay! (but maybe he hasn't discovered it yet)
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