So I get ambitious, right? Always a mistake. Always.
Go to the store. Why have plain ol’ chicken when you can jazz it up, liven it up, invigorate that shit a little, right? Add some zip, some pizzazz. I get tired of a handful of parsley scattered over a roaster nestled above the same old potatoes. So how ‘bout I try something a little different, a little dangerous?
Bad choice of wording. I’ve done this before. I got a wild hair across my butt a few years back and invested heavily in things I could cook with. Grill. Food processor. Produce shopping. The whole deal. Not good. Not good at all.
So what’s different this time?
Abso-frickin’-lutely nothing, that’s what. But I figured it’s time I got a little busy if I don’t want to choke down the same crap day-in, day-0ut. I’ll do a little bit myself.
I buy an apple pear. Eh. Won’t do that again, but whatever, it was like thirty cents. Big effin’ whoop, even I can afford that. I plucked a nice meaty red pepper out of the bin too. Another couple bucks. Okay, I can deal with that. I mean, I can’t make a habit out of this or anything, but I can do it this time. Then I get an orange. Another fraction of a buck. Less than four and I’ve got all my stuff for a little … well, stuffing.
One of the things which survived our horrific trek across time and space was our little solid flavor injector. Unlike liquid flavor injectors, this one can stick solid foods right into the fiber of your meat. Essentially, it stuffs your food with a salsa-like concoction you come up with on your own. Mine included that pear, an orange and its zest, a splash of oil and wine vinegar, salt, pepper, scallions, a couple of diced pineapple slices (canned), a red pepper, a splash of Worcestershire sauce (spell that crap however you’d like, that’s the one my dictionary picked for me), and a dash of Chardonnay. Sound good?
So I’m cutting and chopping. I’m in the cabinet looking for a container to hold my diced items. As I’m looking, I knock something out of the cabinet and it falls on the magnetic paper towel holder we have stuck to the side of the fridge.
The entire holder comes down. Boom.
It takes out my glass full of sugary juice, ice and a pineapple slice elegantly wedged over the rim. That glop splashes all over my French bread, cutting board, knife, arms, shirt, pants, and runs down the cabinet fronts in thick, ropey strands of sweetly thick ooze. My Chardonnay bottle is clipped low by the spinning glass and falls like a ten pin. The cork’s not in it, I notice … too late.
I’m scrambling around, my hands trying to stop fifteen calamities at once, doing an ineffective job on all. I knock the glass into another spin and send the remnants of my drink spiraling over the countertops and microwave. The wine bottle looks like a group of kids spun it for their first kiss and it’s likewise hosing down the counter with golden (irreplaceable, at this point) liquid. My knife clatters to the floor and by only God’s grace and intervention does the edge swipe past my vulnerable stocking-clad toes, leaving them on my feet.
For a moment, I stared in a daze. The glass objects spun slowly to a halt, although the French bread had to reach out to stop the Chardonnay. Luckily they knew each other from the old country.
I put my hands slowly to my sides and backed away from the counter.
“Will you help me in here?” I called, and heard my wife get up from her seat, “I think it’s going to be one of those days.”
I’ll let you know how the chicken turns out.
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