I have found that this song, more than anything else, brings into my heart a spirit of reverence and appreciation for the people who have served in the military. So I thought I would share it on here.
Happy Memorial Day!
Monday, May 26, 2014
Sunday, May 25, 2014
A chef's lament
I have a few minutes and thought I'd take this time to tell a short and goofy story that just came to mind. =)
The joy of cooking is real for me. I'm not a professional (though I did work as a cook for years) but I know my way around the kitchen and have an extensive list of things I've made before and rocked at. And while there's days where I definitely prefer relaxing and ordering a pizza, it's fun, and I enjoy it.
That being said, I HATE raw chicken.
It's something all cooks have to deal with on a regular basis, and so do I. I put up with it...as a non-and-never-gonna-be vegetarian, I have to. It's pretty much unavoidable.
To help you understand my hatred, let me explain some of the processes I go through. To compensate for how gross I think it is, I become very OCD when handling it. When I dice, slice, shred or in any way cut chicken, I wash my hands about 5-6 times from start to finish. And the cutting board can never be clean enough. If I had the money I would honestly consider throwing a cutting board out after each time it comes in contact with raw chicken, and starting fresh with a new one . The fat (ugh, the fat!) that I cut off, I put in a ziplock bag and it immediately goes in the dumpster because I don't want it anywhere in my house.
I am totally fine with all other kinds of meat. The smell, sight of it, touch...I can squeeze that stuff with my bare hands. Doesn't bother me in the slightest.
Well, here's the story. Back when Chase and I were dating, over a year ago, he came to visit me in Philly for the weekend. I was cooking some chicken fettucini alfredo for dinner. (Technically chicken farfalle alfredo, because we like the bowties.) =)
At the time, Chase was unaware of my feelings about raw chicken. We got the chicken out to dice it, Chase was teasing me, and he thought it would be funny, with the raw chicken breast in his hand, to jokingly slap my face with it. And when I say jokingly slap I mean more of a light 'boop'. Don't worry, I'm not being abused.
Either way, it touched my cheek and part of my lip. And instantly, simultaneously, in the very moment that it did, I burst into tears and ran to the bathroom, where I scrubbed my hands, arms, face, lips, and probably even the inside of my mouth with soapy water. I didn't care. I was frantic. I think I even brushed my teeth. Which I probably should've done in the first place instead of soap, right?
Chase felt bad once he realized I was crying...but honestly, I'll tell you what I told him. I wasn't mad at him at all! He didn't know, it was all in lighthearted good fun. I wasn't upset that he did it, or that he was teasing me.
I cried because raw chicken touched my face.
And that's the truth.
The joy of cooking is real for me. I'm not a professional (though I did work as a cook for years) but I know my way around the kitchen and have an extensive list of things I've made before and rocked at. And while there's days where I definitely prefer relaxing and ordering a pizza, it's fun, and I enjoy it.
That being said, I HATE raw chicken.
It's something all cooks have to deal with on a regular basis, and so do I. I put up with it...as a non-and-never-gonna-be vegetarian, I have to. It's pretty much unavoidable.
To help you understand my hatred, let me explain some of the processes I go through. To compensate for how gross I think it is, I become very OCD when handling it. When I dice, slice, shred or in any way cut chicken, I wash my hands about 5-6 times from start to finish. And the cutting board can never be clean enough. If I had the money I would honestly consider throwing a cutting board out after each time it comes in contact with raw chicken, and starting fresh with a new one . The fat (ugh, the fat!) that I cut off, I put in a ziplock bag and it immediately goes in the dumpster because I don't want it anywhere in my house.
I am totally fine with all other kinds of meat. The smell, sight of it, touch...I can squeeze that stuff with my bare hands. Doesn't bother me in the slightest.
Well, here's the story. Back when Chase and I were dating, over a year ago, he came to visit me in Philly for the weekend. I was cooking some chicken fettucini alfredo for dinner. (Technically chicken farfalle alfredo, because we like the bowties.) =)
At the time, Chase was unaware of my feelings about raw chicken. We got the chicken out to dice it, Chase was teasing me, and he thought it would be funny, with the raw chicken breast in his hand, to jokingly slap my face with it. And when I say jokingly slap I mean more of a light 'boop'. Don't worry, I'm not being abused.
Either way, it touched my cheek and part of my lip. And instantly, simultaneously, in the very moment that it did, I burst into tears and ran to the bathroom, where I scrubbed my hands, arms, face, lips, and probably even the inside of my mouth with soapy water. I didn't care. I was frantic. I think I even brushed my teeth. Which I probably should've done in the first place instead of soap, right?
Chase felt bad once he realized I was crying...but honestly, I'll tell you what I told him. I wasn't mad at him at all! He didn't know, it was all in lighthearted good fun. I wasn't upset that he did it, or that he was teasing me.
I cried because raw chicken touched my face.
And that's the truth.
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