Dinner, one way or t’other

June 19, 2016

Team-prepping the chicken.

Team-prepping the chicken.

Me: OK, I need you to get that chicken and two bottles of beer out of the refrigerator in the storage room.

Child B: OK. (coming in with chicken and beer bottles) What are we going to do with this?

Me: We’re going to brine this chicken.

Child B: You know if you put beer on it, I can’t eat it.

One has to think of these things when one has a child with a serious gluten intolerance. OK, we’ll leave out the beer.

Me: Now, go out to the herb garden and get me three sprigs of thyme and three sprigs of sage.

Child B: — blank look —

Me: OK, thyme is the one with the little bitty leaves. Sage is the oval leaves that are velvety.

— comes back in with thyme and sage, which we proceed to add to a brine that already has brown sugar and salt, onion and garlic. Chicken goes into brine, water added whole thing goes back into the fridge.

Fast-forward to the next day.

Me: OK, kid, time to roast the chicken. 

She brings chicken in from outside fridge.

Child B: This is yucky.

Me: Well, it’s not cooked.

A quite respectable chicken dinner.

A quite respectable chicken dinner.

It was an adventure, this cooking of dinner from a supervisory mode, which I started from my nest on the couch in the den, and finally moved into the kitchen where I could scoot about on my desk chair. We salted and peppered the chicken (dumb move on my part; why salt a brined chicken? Old habits die hard), put some butter and herbs in the cavity, put potatoes and carrots and onions around it, and put it in the oven, where, after an hour and a half at 350, it was perfectly done.

The potatoes and carrots, however, were not. Nor were they after another five minutes in the microwave. I don’t understand that.

It was a relatively decent dinner, if not a Sweet Baby Jesus one, and the chicken will serve nicely in some chicken salad later today, or some other chicken prep.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, I have mastered the art of getting myself a cup of coffee or a drink of water; cutting up canteloupe; fixing my morning yogurt and blueberries and granola; and toasting an English muffin. Things could be much worse.

It does not appear the leg will require any surgery, thankfully, though I am awaiting an MRI on my knee on Thursday to say for sure what the damage is there. Doesn’t hurt that much; just aggravating as all hell. I don’t like having to ask people to do things for me, and I assuredly don’t like being cooped up at home (or anywhere else) unable to drive.

But I’ll live, I suspect.

Long as I can scramble eggs and make coffee and get stuff out of the fridge. And long as you ‘n y’mama ‘n ’em call or come by and see me from time to time.




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