It's What's for Dinner

I have a friend who, when faced with a diet full of special needs and a family of reclusive palettes, whips up something elegant, tasty, and beautiful to behold.  We would be better friends if she wasn’t so good at it.

Tonight, in keeping with the “Everything is Edible by Somebody” platform, I ventured into the kitchen with a random menu plan for some type of meat, and chipped open the freezer.  The hamburger glistened under a layer of permafrost and the pork chops resembled the ammunition for some type of sporting event that involves a target and long range planning, so tonight for dinner I prepared a special dish I like to call, “Chicken with Something on It so It Won’t Be Plain.”

The ingredients are: 

Chicken
Other stuff

My method of preparation is simple.  It’s sort of like the children’s card game Match, which my older sister always won when we were kids, probably because she kept enough extra cards in her lap to set up a blackjack table.

I hung from the pantry doors, pulling out two random items until I found a couple that looked as if they might go together.  When the going got tough, I settled on two cans of things that had similarly colored labels.  The Green Giant may want to rethink his packaging strategy.

Once I had two cans that matched each other as closely as Spaghetti and Meat Loaf, I grabbed a couple of attractive spices from the shelf where we keep important kitchen items such as cayenne pepper and cat food.  I measured the spices carefully with a plastic spoon I found on the drainboard,  tossed the contents of the cans into a bowl, and stirred with vigor.  Vigor is an important ingredient as it shows your commitment to the dish.

I was excited that no eruptions or ill-smelling fumes rose from the mixing bowl. Explosions often precede the arrival of the fire department, an event which delays dinner by at least half an hour.  I sampled the concoction.

It tasted vaguely of ear drops. 

A crop dusting of garlic and an hour in the oven later, and dinner was served.  Julia Child wouldn’t have been proud, but every woman who has skipped grocery shopping and come home to a pantry that resembles the scratch and dent table at Discount Foods was cheering me on.  I felt good about the whole thing.

Until the dog, who thinks gourmet  means “from the  litterbox,” asked for his chicken plain.

Maybe tomorrow night I’ll read the labels. Or I might just try my hand at Dinnertime Match Game one more time.  It's not called Pot Luck for nothing.