A recipe for when you’ve accepted that you will be alone forever.
The first real meal that I wanted to learn to make this year was chicken and rice. I know it sounds simple enough, but I had a hard time doing it because I’m functionally retarded when it comes to putting the right amount of rice in the pot with the right amount of water, mostly because I admittedly hate to follow directions. I don’t want to learn to do things: I want to wake up one day with the ability to do everything (and be the best). You could say that I have a lot of ambition, but I’m a little too lazy to get in that car and drive myself down the road. Or something. You know what? Just imagine I came up with the best fucking analogy you’ve ever read, OK?
Anyway. I finally got the whole chicken and rice thing down. That’s basically what I’m trying to say.
First, you cook a pot of rice. That’s probably not the gourmand’s preferred nomenclature, but that’s what it is: a fucking pot of rice. White rice is quicker, which I learned after buying brown rice by mistake. Brown rice takes forty minutes, whereas white rice takes twenty. Although I cook my rice for about fifteen minutes because I like it to be a little undercooked. Al dente, as they say on Top Chef, to which Tom or Gail will reply, “There is no such thing as al dente rice.” Well, fuck you guys. I’m going to dump that shit in a skillet that gets ninety-percent of its use from cooking bacon. I’ll steam my rice however long I want and I will call it al dente. That’s the magic of cooking!
After you cook the rice, you’ll probably want to take a break. I mean, letting rice steam in a pot for fifteen minutes over a low flame is exhausting, ESPECIALLY if you’re immediately going to go and cut up a chicken breast into cubes. We all know that handling raw chicken is THE MOST DISGUSTING THING IN THE WORLD, EVER, so I will spare you the descriptions. Although, here’s a question: Why does the raw chicken dry out my hands so much? It creeps me out. (That’s really a rhetorical question. I don’t want to know.)
After a fifteen minute wine-and-granola-bar break, cut the chicken into cubes. I usually buy the tenders because it’s easier, and I’ve found that if they are still a little frozen (like, just in the middle) it’s much less disgusting.
Pour a tablespoon or two (read: size of a half-dollar, or, you know, whatever you’re feeling at the time) of cooking oil in a skillet, as well as some soy sauce. The amount of soy sauce is entirely up to you. Remember that the more you put in that pan, the more likely it will fly up into your face. Dump the cubes of chicken into the pan and stir for a few minutes, until they look “about done.” Then dump in the pot of rice. Add more soy sauce so that the rice turns brown. Add crushed cayenne pepper and sriracha sauce to taste. I’ve found that the spicier the rice and chicken, the less likely I will focus on the gross texture of mushy chicken and rice slathered in soy sauce.
Doesn’t that all sound extremely appetizing? Well, here’s the thing: I was really proud of myself that I made it, but then I thought, “Oh, this isn’t as good as Kanuk or Joy’s.” I tried doing it a few more times, and I realized that I just wasn’t really into it. I couldn’t even bring myself to heat up the leftover chicken and rice for lunch the next day. And then I realized WHY.
Chicken and rice was the one meal that I would eat when I went out to Asian restaurants for dinner. I could get them to strip it of anything other than the chicken and the rice (because I like my foods brown - no vegetables mixed in, thank you) and it would be satisfying enough. But when I eat it at home, alone, and without the company with which I dined out, it was much different. It was bland, it was sloppy, and generally unappealing.
So there you have it: the first “new meal” that I cooked on my own in 2009 - the one I was so proud of because it was something I knew I liked - turned out to be a bit of a bust. But, you know, at least it’s not MY fault.
Via Tyler Coates
