Strawberry Chicken
Ok I admit it, I rarely read the fine print in anything, contracts, insurance forms, customs declarations or recipes books and so I have found it my difficult task to inform relatives of having poisoned their loved ones after a particularly harrowing dinner party, but since most have recovered to near full health if not total feeling in all limbs, no enormous drama, and hence this recipe.
Its meant to be Raspberry chicken, but shit strawberry/raspberry, its all fucking fruit, and no one since that bitch Eve, has died or received a permanent disability eating fruit. I cant even remember what the original recipe consisted of, I only glanced at the title and thought “Holy friggin cow, I got a punnet of strawberries in my hand and the gaping part of a defrosted No. 12 chicken sticking out of my pants” (don’t ask, its been a long time between drinks, okay). So the mind began to trickle across from its preoccupation and found it cogitating in a swirling morass of cooking, as is my want.
Take one lump of chicken breast, or at least one per person you are cooking for, any less and really your guests are going to look at you the way some of mine look at me after a hard days drinking with anybody who will buy me a glass of mint flavoured ethanol, when I open a packet of twisties and say “Just put em in the friggin microwave with a kraft cheese stick, and you have a balanced friggin meal, im off to bed with a bucket.” Some of my friends are just plain cunts when it comes to me feeding their cheap asses.
Oh yes, that’s it, the chicken, you have it in your right hand (remember your left is should be used for other activities, picking, wiping etc, as the Koran says, and Allah is all mighty and wise), place it in a large bowl. Ignore it for a few minutes, just look away, pretend it doesn’t exist, its not a fucking Zen concept, you have other shit to do, okay, lust for such luscious creatures is neither sick nor unhealthy in any sense and just because its illegal in the food court at Myers (and hell its does not explicitly state this anywhere in the store, and Mr. Baleyou has since apologised to me personally, after a fashion), doesn’t mean that in the privacy of your own home, you cant do as you friggin well please. Ignoring all desire frothing from your loins, place in a blender, the strawberries, a generous quantity of pepper, a dollop of balsamic vinegar and some parsley. Blend to a smooth watery paste, pour over the sweet tender young chicken breasts and leave it alone for at least an hour, and preferably twenty four hours, any time less than an hour and you might as well go out and get KFC and tell your guests you discovered the eleven secret herbs and spices after years of trial and error.
With the chicken marinating overnight, go back to your dreams of a better life doing wot ever it may be that you do, and generally after you buy me a drink, I will take a slight interest until the flagon is empty.
Fire up the hanabashi, filled as it should be with chips of good redwood or some exotic tropical wood (see your neighbours outdoor furniture for the more flavoursome woods), place the chicken breasts upon said hot beast and char ever so slightly until you think its done, generally about five minutes for each side, or as I like to time it, two full glasses of a spritely spirit from the outer labia of mother Russia.
This dish can be eaten on its own straight from the hotplate (if you don’t feel like washing up stupid friggin plates) or can be chopped up and tossed through a poultice of baby spinach leaves with the rest of the marinade and then eaten between the thighs of a strongly flavoured Armenian woman.
Salut.
Ok I admit it, I rarely read the fine print in anything, contracts, insurance forms, customs declarations or recipes books and so I have found it my difficult task to inform relatives of having poisoned their loved ones after a particularly harrowing dinner party, but since most have recovered to near full health if not total feeling in all limbs, no enormous drama, and hence this recipe.
Its meant to be Raspberry chicken, but shit strawberry/raspberry, its all fucking fruit, and no one since that bitch Eve, has died or received a permanent disability eating fruit. I cant even remember what the original recipe consisted of, I only glanced at the title and thought “Holy friggin cow, I got a punnet of strawberries in my hand and the gaping part of a defrosted No. 12 chicken sticking out of my pants” (don’t ask, its been a long time between drinks, okay). So the mind began to trickle across from its preoccupation and found it cogitating in a swirling morass of cooking, as is my want.
Take one lump of chicken breast, or at least one per person you are cooking for, any less and really your guests are going to look at you the way some of mine look at me after a hard days drinking with anybody who will buy me a glass of mint flavoured ethanol, when I open a packet of twisties and say “Just put em in the friggin microwave with a kraft cheese stick, and you have a balanced friggin meal, im off to bed with a bucket.” Some of my friends are just plain cunts when it comes to me feeding their cheap asses.
Oh yes, that’s it, the chicken, you have it in your right hand (remember your left is should be used for other activities, picking, wiping etc, as the Koran says, and Allah is all mighty and wise), place it in a large bowl. Ignore it for a few minutes, just look away, pretend it doesn’t exist, its not a fucking Zen concept, you have other shit to do, okay, lust for such luscious creatures is neither sick nor unhealthy in any sense and just because its illegal in the food court at Myers (and hell its does not explicitly state this anywhere in the store, and Mr. Baleyou has since apologised to me personally, after a fashion), doesn’t mean that in the privacy of your own home, you cant do as you friggin well please. Ignoring all desire frothing from your loins, place in a blender, the strawberries, a generous quantity of pepper, a dollop of balsamic vinegar and some parsley. Blend to a smooth watery paste, pour over the sweet tender young chicken breasts and leave it alone for at least an hour, and preferably twenty four hours, any time less than an hour and you might as well go out and get KFC and tell your guests you discovered the eleven secret herbs and spices after years of trial and error.
With the chicken marinating overnight, go back to your dreams of a better life doing wot ever it may be that you do, and generally after you buy me a drink, I will take a slight interest until the flagon is empty.
Fire up the hanabashi, filled as it should be with chips of good redwood or some exotic tropical wood (see your neighbours outdoor furniture for the more flavoursome woods), place the chicken breasts upon said hot beast and char ever so slightly until you think its done, generally about five minutes for each side, or as I like to time it, two full glasses of a spritely spirit from the outer labia of mother Russia.
This dish can be eaten on its own straight from the hotplate (if you don’t feel like washing up stupid friggin plates) or can be chopped up and tossed through a poultice of baby spinach leaves with the rest of the marinade and then eaten between the thighs of a strongly flavoured Armenian woman.
Salut.
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posted by the bluhamster at 7:18 PM
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