boy! get down off that chicken!
One time, my mom was in the grocery store and she heard a woman yell this to her kid. When mom looked, she saw the kid, about three, in the woman's cart, riding a whole frozen chicken like a little horse. It's one of my mom's favorite non-sequitors and she yells it at us every now and then just to make us laugh. Mom's full of those.
Anyway, this could also have been titled "adventures in bad cooking" or "why i have a mother" or "no soup for you!" Sunday night, while SK and I were taking an evening off, I bought some chicken at Wild Oats down the street. I used half for my supper that night and intended to use the other half in some chicken soup. Of course, some procrastination ensued, and here it is, Wednesday, and I'm finally ready to make the chicken soup.
The chicken, however, may have passed its moment of readiness. I opened the butcher paper and noticed a less than fresh smell rising off the chicken breast. Now, this wasn't a "Holy shit, I'm gonna be sick!" kind of smell. It was more like a, "Hmm, that doesn't smell quite right," kind of smell. Now, I am not a great cook anyway, but I'm especially untested when it comes to cooking meats. In all my years out in the world, I have almost never bought and cooked meats for myself, perferring a nearly vegetarian lifestyle. However, lately, I've been branching out and roasting the odd chicken, here and there. This branching out has not yet prepared me for the dilemma of a funky chicken.
I put my thinking cap on and tried to analogize to my other cooking experiences. Sometimes, when the tofu is a little funky, you can cook the funk away. You'll know by the smell if the cooking is successful -- a disgustingly amplified funk-smell indicates that the tofu is too far gone. Throw it out and open some windows. Can this principle hold true for chicken? Can't chicken kill you? (Those of us who haven't cooked much meat are susceptible to paranoia about its toxicity.) Isn't there someone I can ask about this??
I considered my options. I could never call SK because I have too much pride. Even though she will read this and chuckle or tut-tut that I didn't call (or tut-tut that I'm cooking funky chicken), I absolutely couldn't bring myself to ask for her help in this matter. I could call my grandmother, but she's a terrible cook and seeking her advice with this would be like asking a basketball coach for help with a knitting project. I even considered calling my land-owner upstairs and asking her -- I know she's home, I can hear her kids running around upstairs. Certainly she would know. But then, finally, I remembered my mother.
Why didn't I think of mom first? I don't know. Mom's complicated. Mom makes fun of me. Mom was very likely to just laugh and yell at me to get down off that chicken! But I have a mom and my mom is a great cook and she was, of course, the perfect person to call. So I did. And guess what she was doing when I called? She was cooking chicken too! Chicken pot pies. Yum. If it wasn't 3,500 miles away, I'd head over for supper.
"So you want to know if you can cook the funk away?" She asked and laughed and laughed and then said. "Yeah. It's just bacteria. You can cook it away. It might not taste too good, but it won't hurt you." She asked me for all the details of my experiment (by this time, I'd already boiled the living hell out of the chicken and was relieved that I hadn't unleashed an onslaught of toxic fumes). She weighed the info I gave her and she pronounced that the chicken would be fine, that it might not taste great but that I could cover the taste with lots of spices, and she told me to eat it fast and get rid of it because it won't keep very long. She never even once told me to get down off that chicken. Thanks mom.
So the experiment goes on -- it's all in the pot now and will be done pretty soon. It won't kill me, but it won't be the best pot of soup I've ever made. Which means: sorry Sk. No soup for you. I'll make us something else this weekend that doesn't involve nearly-spoiled meat.
Anyway, this could also have been titled "adventures in bad cooking" or "why i have a mother" or "no soup for you!" Sunday night, while SK and I were taking an evening off, I bought some chicken at Wild Oats down the street. I used half for my supper that night and intended to use the other half in some chicken soup. Of course, some procrastination ensued, and here it is, Wednesday, and I'm finally ready to make the chicken soup.
The chicken, however, may have passed its moment of readiness. I opened the butcher paper and noticed a less than fresh smell rising off the chicken breast. Now, this wasn't a "Holy shit, I'm gonna be sick!" kind of smell. It was more like a, "Hmm, that doesn't smell quite right," kind of smell. Now, I am not a great cook anyway, but I'm especially untested when it comes to cooking meats. In all my years out in the world, I have almost never bought and cooked meats for myself, perferring a nearly vegetarian lifestyle. However, lately, I've been branching out and roasting the odd chicken, here and there. This branching out has not yet prepared me for the dilemma of a funky chicken.
I put my thinking cap on and tried to analogize to my other cooking experiences. Sometimes, when the tofu is a little funky, you can cook the funk away. You'll know by the smell if the cooking is successful -- a disgustingly amplified funk-smell indicates that the tofu is too far gone. Throw it out and open some windows. Can this principle hold true for chicken? Can't chicken kill you? (Those of us who haven't cooked much meat are susceptible to paranoia about its toxicity.) Isn't there someone I can ask about this??
I considered my options. I could never call SK because I have too much pride. Even though she will read this and chuckle or tut-tut that I didn't call (or tut-tut that I'm cooking funky chicken), I absolutely couldn't bring myself to ask for her help in this matter. I could call my grandmother, but she's a terrible cook and seeking her advice with this would be like asking a basketball coach for help with a knitting project. I even considered calling my land-owner upstairs and asking her -- I know she's home, I can hear her kids running around upstairs. Certainly she would know. But then, finally, I remembered my mother.
Why didn't I think of mom first? I don't know. Mom's complicated. Mom makes fun of me. Mom was very likely to just laugh and yell at me to get down off that chicken! But I have a mom and my mom is a great cook and she was, of course, the perfect person to call. So I did. And guess what she was doing when I called? She was cooking chicken too! Chicken pot pies. Yum. If it wasn't 3,500 miles away, I'd head over for supper.
"So you want to know if you can cook the funk away?" She asked and laughed and laughed and then said. "Yeah. It's just bacteria. You can cook it away. It might not taste too good, but it won't hurt you." She asked me for all the details of my experiment (by this time, I'd already boiled the living hell out of the chicken and was relieved that I hadn't unleashed an onslaught of toxic fumes). She weighed the info I gave her and she pronounced that the chicken would be fine, that it might not taste great but that I could cover the taste with lots of spices, and she told me to eat it fast and get rid of it because it won't keep very long. She never even once told me to get down off that chicken. Thanks mom.
So the experiment goes on -- it's all in the pot now and will be done pretty soon. It won't kill me, but it won't be the best pot of soup I've ever made. Which means: sorry Sk. No soup for you. I'll make us something else this weekend that doesn't involve nearly-spoiled meat.
posted by reasonably prudent poet at 1:31 PM
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