It's a scary thing, announcing that you've achieved some kind of relevance, and then offering as your first bit of evidence yet another piece extolling the virtues of hot heat applied to vegetable and animal flesh. Okay, maybe "scary" is not the right word, just as more mushroom talk is not entirely appropriate, either.
Be these things as they may:
When your blood glucose reading is already low, and beginning to flirt with the concept of Plummeting, carefully prepare your perfectly seasoned black cast iron skillet to receive the last two boneless-skinless-and-trimmed-of-excess-fat chicken thighs remaining in the refrigerator. Salt them; Pepper them. Be liberal.
Sling them around a little on the cutting board while that pan gets so hot it would glow red if it weren't so black. Get to know your chicken.
Just when you see the air start to shimmer, add a tablespoon or so of good olive oil. If you're going to fret over how much oil to add, stop now and go find some other recipe to abuse.
Make yourself wait again, some more. Squash any thought of caramelized onion or sweet red pepper. Fuss at yourself.
Slap the chicken into the hot oil in the shimmering hot skillet, then don't touch it. Don't move it. Leave it the hell alone. Wait a minute or so -- in fact, yeah, wait exactly *90* seconds, then flip the bird parts, smartly, in one smooth move, and cover that sizzling mess tightly with foil. Turn the flame down a bit.
Grab your mushrooms. We only have big gorgeous button shrooms on hand. I don't wash them. Sue me.
They were large enough that, quartered, they were still meat-hunky. How many? That depends. Today, I quartered six humongous mushrooms. I didn't get 24 browned and caramelized mushroom pieces, though, so I must have either lied about quartering each piece o'fungus or I ate a few sections raw. Or both.
Unseal the magic skillet, flip the bird again, toss in the mushrooms, seal it back up. Again, refrain from touching the chicken. Count the number of times you have chicken contact since it met up with the skillet -- to this point, three spears with a fork's tines. That's it.
Learn not to touch the mushrooms, either. Don't sprinkle them with special fruity vinegars or provide a nearly invisible crust of sugar. Not necessary. Hot hot hot heat and good fat, basic seasoning. The side of the mushroom that touches the skillet is undergoing a transformation that reduces wide-eyed references to butterflies to annoying dead butterfly powder.
Try not to get splattered. If you broke the covenant and washed your mushrooms, you're likely covered in burns, and all is lost. I mean it, everything is ruined, so just turn off the fire and go hide somewhere. If you got splattered but did not transgress against your food, be sure you replace the foil seal before you commence to whining about it.
Wait the perfect amount of time. Turn off the gas. (Don't cook with anything but gas. If you're just now realizing your mistake, Your Bad. You should have read carefully through these ridiculous instructions before beginning. What's wrong with you?) Drag that pan to an unused burner. If you want, you can call this "resting." The aroma ought to render you a quivering five-foot-nine column of self-basting salivary gland.
While everything is squirting and leaking and juicing itself, getting all married and united and stuff, wash up. Chicken germs: Ew, ick. Lots of soap and hot water. Wipe down the counters, even the ones you didn't use. Once you've done that, that snooty resting phase is over.
Serve yourself. It goes without saying that you should have waited to hear the screeching tires of the last church-goers as they left Your Manor, late for the opening hymn, before embarking on this juicified, quick-fire adventure in moist mouth sin.
It's gonna be hell, when next you venture into that kitchen, to clean the skillet, but give it love. The dish you just made is now part of the perfectly seasoned black cast iron skillet mystique. It was good to you so be good back.
You should be feeling much better now. Round off your protein with a glass of extremely cold water and a large, flawless, crisp apple. Don't claim that someone left you the apple on a plate next to an apologetic note about having devoured some sweet-'n-sour golden kumquats.
Nibble at a bit of lemon wedge, let it cut through all that is viscous. Realize that while everyone who flew off to worship God will be rolling home, repentant, you are the one who ate the pan-fried chicken thighs with caramelized button mushrooms. That ought to put things in perspective and be a singular rallying point for you, later in the week.
When your blood glucose reading is already low, and beginning to flirt with the concept of Plummeting, carefully prepare your perfectly seasoned black cast iron skillet to receive the last two boneless-skinless-and-trimmed-of-excess-fat chicken thighs remaining in the refrigerator. Salt them; Pepper them. Be liberal.
Sling them around a little on the cutting board while that pan gets so hot it would glow red if it weren't so black. Get to know your chicken.
Just when you see the air start to shimmer, add a tablespoon or so of good olive oil. If you're going to fret over how much oil to add, stop now and go find some other recipe to abuse.
Make yourself wait again, some more. Squash any thought of caramelized onion or sweet red pepper. Fuss at yourself.
Slap the chicken into the hot oil in the shimmering hot skillet, then don't touch it. Don't move it. Leave it the hell alone. Wait a minute or so -- in fact, yeah, wait exactly *90* seconds, then flip the bird parts, smartly, in one smooth move, and cover that sizzling mess tightly with foil. Turn the flame down a bit.
Grab your mushrooms. We only have big gorgeous button shrooms on hand. I don't wash them. Sue me.
They were large enough that, quartered, they were still meat-hunky. How many? That depends. Today, I quartered six humongous mushrooms. I didn't get 24 browned and caramelized mushroom pieces, though, so I must have either lied about quartering each piece o'fungus or I ate a few sections raw. Or both.
Unseal the magic skillet, flip the bird again, toss in the mushrooms, seal it back up. Again, refrain from touching the chicken. Count the number of times you have chicken contact since it met up with the skillet -- to this point, three spears with a fork's tines. That's it.
Learn not to touch the mushrooms, either. Don't sprinkle them with special fruity vinegars or provide a nearly invisible crust of sugar. Not necessary. Hot hot hot heat and good fat, basic seasoning. The side of the mushroom that touches the skillet is undergoing a transformation that reduces wide-eyed references to butterflies to annoying dead butterfly powder.
Try not to get splattered. If you broke the covenant and washed your mushrooms, you're likely covered in burns, and all is lost. I mean it, everything is ruined, so just turn off the fire and go hide somewhere. If you got splattered but did not transgress against your food, be sure you replace the foil seal before you commence to whining about it.
Wait the perfect amount of time. Turn off the gas. (Don't cook with anything but gas. If you're just now realizing your mistake, Your Bad. You should have read carefully through these ridiculous instructions before beginning. What's wrong with you?) Drag that pan to an unused burner. If you want, you can call this "resting." The aroma ought to render you a quivering five-foot-nine column of self-basting salivary gland.
While everything is squirting and leaking and juicing itself, getting all married and united and stuff, wash up. Chicken germs: Ew, ick. Lots of soap and hot water. Wipe down the counters, even the ones you didn't use. Once you've done that, that snooty resting phase is over.
Serve yourself. It goes without saying that you should have waited to hear the screeching tires of the last church-goers as they left Your Manor, late for the opening hymn, before embarking on this juicified, quick-fire adventure in moist mouth sin.
It's gonna be hell, when next you venture into that kitchen, to clean the skillet, but give it love. The dish you just made is now part of the perfectly seasoned black cast iron skillet mystique. It was good to you so be good back.
You should be feeling much better now. Round off your protein with a glass of extremely cold water and a large, flawless, crisp apple. Don't claim that someone left you the apple on a plate next to an apologetic note about having devoured some sweet-'n-sour golden kumquats.
Nibble at a bit of lemon wedge, let it cut through all that is viscous. Realize that while everyone who flew off to worship God will be rolling home, repentant, you are the one who ate the pan-fried chicken thighs with caramelized button mushrooms. That ought to put things in perspective and be a singular rallying point for you, later in the week.
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