Too Much Chicken!

I know several things about myself. One of them is, no matter how good my intentions, I will probably not cook a serious meal on a Monday night.



Having thawed a chicken Friday morning, I knew this meant one thing: that chicken required my attention today. And LJ, who is pretty easygoing about 99% of all possible things food-related, is adamant on one point: chicken is FRIED. Baked chicken, in his opinion, is "not done". (Baked to within a degree of being inedible carbonized chunks, no matter--it's still "not done". Since I, personally, am a veritable FOUNT of food-related quirks, I can indulge him on this one.)



So this afternoon I did the whole chicken-cutting-up thing--an interesting task, with my three square feet of counter space (that is neither an exaggeration nor a typo) and questionable motor skills. And then I did the whole making-broth-with-the-scraps thing, and the mashed-potatoes thing, and the seventeen-gallons-of-hot-grease thing...



And once all that was done, I locked Foof-cat in the back bedroom--she's a food-snatching machine--and sat down with my plate piled high.



TOO high. I feel as though I've been inflated. But DAMN was that some good food. The only thing that disappointed me were my biscuits--not flaky. I think the butter was too warm or something.



You know what the worst part of all this is?



Now--even though I feel like I could explode--I STILL wouldn't turn down a bowl of Heath Bar Crunch, were one to materialize.