Another one of the joys of spending time with my parents is cooking and baking with MMTM and eating with MKWF. When he retired my mother made sure that MKWF could become a man of leisure in his Man Cave. He has a very comfortable leather recliner and a big ol' TV with hundreds of cable channels, and an end table for drinks, snacks, and remotes.
I periodically send MMTM recipes that I think we should try. The latest was Bakesale Betty's Fried Chicken Sandwich. That sandwich is a thing of beauty. I know that it was professionally styled and photographed, however, it's still a beautiful, serious sandwich. Fried chicken and coleslaw on a bun? Really. How could you not eat that? OK, fine...you're a vegetarian or vegan. Move along. There's nothing for you to see here. But the rest of us...we owe it to all of the chickens and and cows and cabbages out there to make and enjoy...no...revel in this sandwich.
MMTM and I decided we would have The Sandwich the night before I drove back to VA. Chicken breasts were cleaned and soaked in buttermilk overnight. Cabbages and jalapenos were thinly sliced. The coleslaw recipe calls for two jalapenos but MMTM and I decided to only put in 1/2 of 1 jalapeno. MMTM fired up turkey fryer (cause turkey fryers are good for frying more than turkeys) and lowered in the chicken breasts. The smell of frying chicken drifted across the backyard. Small animals perked up their noses and whimpered in anticipation. Large animals began to drool and hover around the fryer, hoping for a glimpse of the chicken.
The chicken came out of the fryer, and it was breathtaking. Golden brown and skin that was so crisp that I feared looking at it would cause it to shatter. Next MMTM put in the french fries. Because she is a merciful woman, she allowed me to have a piece of the fried batter that fell off. I was ready to knock her over and snatch the platter out of her hand for more.
MMTM told me to summon MKWF to dinner. By the time he arrived in the kitchen, she had assembled the sandwiches and added a generous helping of fries to our plates. I looked at my sandwich and said, I need a beer. This was a major declaration because MMTM and MKWF acknowledge that people drink alcoholic beverages, but they don't necessarily approve. MMTM simply smiled knowingly.
We headed into the Man Cave with our plates and sodas and settled down. I picked up my Fried Chicken Sandwich, took a bite, and decided that I could die in peace. The balance of crunchy batter loaded with cayenne pepper and fresh ground black pepper and the coolness of the coleslaw was perfect. There was quiet in the Man Cave. We ate our sandwiches in contentment and with joy.
I finally reached the point where I could eat no more. I could not finish the sandwich. It seemed almost blasphemous to not finish The Sandwich, but I could not. I leaned back and declared I was done.
MKWF looked at my plate and said, Finish your sandwich.
I said, I'm done. I can't eat anymore.
He said, Sure you can. It's only 3 or 4 bites. Finish it.
I repeated, I'm done.
He said, Come on. Man up! Finish your sandwich!
I said, I am not going to let you bully me into eating myself sick.
Then I burped. (Oh, who am I kidding, I belched. I had guzzled a can of Sierra Mist.)
He said, You have more room now! Walk it off, then you can finish that sandwich.
I said, You know what...I'm done. I'm not eating anymore of this sandwich. Leave me alone.
With that I took my plate into the kitchen. MMTM soon followed me. She finished her sandwich. Then MKWF came into the kitchen. He saw my empty plate, and said, with much hope, You finished your sandwich? I said, No. I threw the rest away. I could not finish it.
MMTM looked at MKWF and said, You're sweating. You've got beads of sweat on your face.
I said, Did you add the rest of the jalapenos to your sandwich?
He said, No.
MMTM said, Then why are you sweating?
He said, I don't know.
I said, It was the batter. The batter made you sweat. The batter didn't make me sweat. Then again, I didn't finish my sandwich.
Now in other families, when a family member because to start profusely sweating for no apparent reason, they ask questions like, Are you having chest pains? Feel any numbness or tingling in your extremities? Do you feel dizzy?
Not in that home on that night. Well, at least not right away. We picked on him. Why? After spending a week together in one house we were clearly incapable of acting like grown ups instead of children on a playground.
I periodically send MMTM recipes that I think we should try. The latest was Bakesale Betty's Fried Chicken Sandwich. That sandwich is a thing of beauty. I know that it was professionally styled and photographed, however, it's still a beautiful, serious sandwich. Fried chicken and coleslaw on a bun? Really. How could you not eat that? OK, fine...you're a vegetarian or vegan. Move along. There's nothing for you to see here. But the rest of us...we owe it to all of the chickens and and cows and cabbages out there to make and enjoy...no...revel in this sandwich.
MMTM and I decided we would have The Sandwich the night before I drove back to VA. Chicken breasts were cleaned and soaked in buttermilk overnight. Cabbages and jalapenos were thinly sliced. The coleslaw recipe calls for two jalapenos but MMTM and I decided to only put in 1/2 of 1 jalapeno. MMTM fired up turkey fryer (cause turkey fryers are good for frying more than turkeys) and lowered in the chicken breasts. The smell of frying chicken drifted across the backyard. Small animals perked up their noses and whimpered in anticipation. Large animals began to drool and hover around the fryer, hoping for a glimpse of the chicken.
The chicken came out of the fryer, and it was breathtaking. Golden brown and skin that was so crisp that I feared looking at it would cause it to shatter. Next MMTM put in the french fries. Because she is a merciful woman, she allowed me to have a piece of the fried batter that fell off. I was ready to knock her over and snatch the platter out of her hand for more.
MMTM told me to summon MKWF to dinner. By the time he arrived in the kitchen, she had assembled the sandwiches and added a generous helping of fries to our plates. I looked at my sandwich and said, I need a beer. This was a major declaration because MMTM and MKWF acknowledge that people drink alcoholic beverages, but they don't necessarily approve. MMTM simply smiled knowingly.
We headed into the Man Cave with our plates and sodas and settled down. I picked up my Fried Chicken Sandwich, took a bite, and decided that I could die in peace. The balance of crunchy batter loaded with cayenne pepper and fresh ground black pepper and the coolness of the coleslaw was perfect. There was quiet in the Man Cave. We ate our sandwiches in contentment and with joy.
I finally reached the point where I could eat no more. I could not finish the sandwich. It seemed almost blasphemous to not finish The Sandwich, but I could not. I leaned back and declared I was done.
MKWF looked at my plate and said, Finish your sandwich.
I said, I'm done. I can't eat anymore.
He said, Sure you can. It's only 3 or 4 bites. Finish it.
I repeated, I'm done.
He said, Come on. Man up! Finish your sandwich!
I said, I am not going to let you bully me into eating myself sick.
Then I burped. (Oh, who am I kidding, I belched. I had guzzled a can of Sierra Mist.)
He said, You have more room now! Walk it off, then you can finish that sandwich.
I said, You know what...I'm done. I'm not eating anymore of this sandwich. Leave me alone.
With that I took my plate into the kitchen. MMTM soon followed me. She finished her sandwich. Then MKWF came into the kitchen. He saw my empty plate, and said, with much hope, You finished your sandwich? I said, No. I threw the rest away. I could not finish it.
MMTM looked at MKWF and said, You're sweating. You've got beads of sweat on your face.
I said, Did you add the rest of the jalapenos to your sandwich?
He said, No.
MMTM said, Then why are you sweating?
He said, I don't know.
I said, It was the batter. The batter made you sweat. The batter didn't make me sweat. Then again, I didn't finish my sandwich.
Now in other families, when a family member because to start profusely sweating for no apparent reason, they ask questions like, Are you having chest pains? Feel any numbness or tingling in your extremities? Do you feel dizzy?
Not in that home on that night. Well, at least not right away. We picked on him. Why? After spending a week together in one house we were clearly incapable of acting like grown ups instead of children on a playground.
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