August 28, 2010


I don't cook. First, I never really learned how to cook. Second, I do not like touching raw meat (hold the jokes please), so any meat dish kinda creeps me out. Thirdly, the children do not leave me alone for six seconds to heat up hotdogs, let alone filet a mignon. Or whatever.

Things I can make: soup, chili, lasagna, various crockpot delights, and any salad or sandwhich you may want. Salad or sandwiches are awesome, but apparently do not constitute cooking (!?), so says the Expert.

The Expert is my husband.

We are having a friend over to eat tonight. Last night, my anti-cookingness came up when we were trying to determine what to feed our company. I suggested that the Expert cook something. He suggested that since it was his dude friend coming over, that I should cook something like a proper woman. (Sidenote: this comment was, of course, made in jest. Otherwise, he'd be a single man today).

I protested a few times, until the Expert opened up a diatribe about how I really never cook anything. I protested again, but then I really could not deny this. So I admitted it. And there was no fight.

Afterall, what is there to fight about? I do not cook.

So after all this happens, the Expert says (and I quote): Any self-respecting Southern woman should be able to fry chicken.

Well. I may not cook, but I also never turn down a challenge. And this was a challenge if I've ever smelled one. Hence, dinner plans were set.

So as I type, the chicken is marinating menacingly in the fridge. My breading is sitting and mocking me in a paper bag, waiting. The oil is ready. The wire rack is in perfect placement. And the company is en route. Here we go!

Any self-respecting Southern woman should be able to fry chicken, I'm repeating like a sick mantra in Paula Deen's accent. Now, I'm not sure what's going to happen with this chicken tonight.

But after a few glasses of wine, I'm not sure the chicken is going to be the determining factor of my self-respectingness. Ha!

Happy Saturday, ya'll!

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