I love watching cooking shows. They’re interesting, they expose me to unique techniques and foods I’d never heard of before. I like to learn things.
The problem with this is a problem so many people have with watching cooking shows: you start to think you can do it too.
After a five hour Chopped marathon at my old house, I suddenly realized I was hungry and I had some chicken in the freezer that I hadn’t touched in like two months so it was a good time to use it.
I pulled out a bunch of bowls and the chicken and my George Foreman Grill
because that’s how I roll.
Roommate: What’re you doing?
Me: I’m making food. I’m being a chef. Want to have some when I’m done?
Roommate: Not even a little.
I poured about a gallon of lemon juice into the bowl, with some soy sauce and wine (look I was a broke college student, I was using what was in the kitchen). I stuck the chicken breasts in there as I heated up my George Foreman. Once I was satisfied with the chicken being good to go I threw a handful of every spice in the cabinet on top of it and stuck it on the grill. Then I tucked a pat of butter into each under the skin. While that sizzled grandly I put the rest of my lemony concoction into a pan and heated it up with some flour.
Then I poked the chicken, considered it done, and pulled it onto a plate. I poured my lemon sauce on top, and announced I had created a masterpiece.
I cleaned up my (not inconsiderable) mess, and sat down next to my roommate on the couch with my prize.
She watched me.
I cut the chicken. Dipped it into the sauce.
Took a big bite.
…oddly, if you marinate chicken in lemon, use 30 spices, and make lemon sauce… it’s rather like biting into a lemon you’ve marinated in chicken.
I ate the whole damn thing because I refused to admit defeat to her. But she knew. Oh, she knew.
Damn it, Chopped.