- Spatters of Fat
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tejolote
- July 19th, 1:59
Chicken breast, rent of its ribs, spattered into hot cast iron on a slick of olive oil and left to crisp while I quartered purple potatoes and carrots and shallots. The vegetables I precooked for five minutes in the microwave, and just as the chicken developed a delectable crust, I picked it up and shoved the vegetables under it. I added a bit more oil and popped it in the oven with salt and pepper, to cook for 15 minutes at 350.
I wiped down the spatters of chicken fat that covered everything in a two foot radius, and then I mixed oil, lemon juice, and fresh thyme from my herb pots along with some salt and pepper flakes, and minced garlic. Then I went and sat and got high on the smell of chicken skin and fat, and vegetables carmelizing, flavor bursting forth in air molecules all over the house. High.
When the chicken was done I poured the oil, herb, and lemon juice mix over all, and ate.
Now, just now I've made three different types of pesto: two are close to the usual, and one is a tomato pesto,. Two hours fiddling in the kitchen, making chicken stock out of the discarded ribs, and older veggies, running the mini food processor at two a.m., whirling from station to station, a bit manic.
In the new apartment I must be quiet. Some below, some above, some on every side. In this burrow I must be still, no food processing at ten or midnight or two a.m. No working the saw, no painting in this new place. My hours are given to me, doled out, I must relearn acceptable behaviour.
Mania pulls at me tonight, begging me to use the house, touch it, live in it in ways I will always miss. I love this house. I wanted to live here forever. Or at least until Seattle. It isn't fair, it was mine. I loved it.
Love is never. Ever. a good idea.