Half frozen chicken breasts, half a bag of semi-wilted spinach and an open container of feta. I opened the fridge Monday night and thought, “…I don’t need to go to the grocery, right here are the fixin’s for a masterful meal…” (sometimes I think in strange idioms, don’t judge).
I sautéed the spinach with olive oil, lemon and a bit of garlic…that turned kind of weird turquoise colour when I added it to the pan. Some may have taken this as a sign, a warning, but I forged on, adding the remains of a container of feta that may have originally been opened when Paul Martin was Prime Minister. “It’s feta…it’s already putrid, it can’t go bad.”
The plan was to make a rouland with the chicken, but it was frozen through the middle, so I tried something I’ve never tried before…I attempted to defrost it in the microwave. There’s a special button for that sort of thing. “It’s foolproof!”
Eight minutes later I took the ‘cooked on the outside, frozen in the middle’ chicken out and attempted to pound it into thin patties. Then I scooped some of the filling onto each mound of macerated, half mauled, semi-cooked meat and attempted to skewer it into some kind of pocket around the spinach. “Who cares what it looks like, right?” I popped those puppies into a moderate oven with an acorn squash and a confident heart.
Forty minutes later, as the rice was cooking and SR was looking like he would eat through the restraints, the smell hit. A mixture of acrid baby vomit and hiking socks. Opening the oven door was a rookie mistake. I ran to open the back door, the kitchen windows, I’d have torn the side off the house if I thought it would help. SR assured me that the stank must be clearing out of the house because he noticed it was permeating the entire neighborhood when he took the mess to the garbage bins.
Taking refuge in the basement with take-out burgers, I comforted myself with the knowledge that all great chefs have ‘off’ days, and here’s the proof: