Cooking, Chicken, and Crochet


On Friday night, Jordan and I used a recipe from Pioneer Woman's cookbook and made chicken spaghetti. It ended up being delicious, but first we had to get past this:

(This obviously isn't a picture of the actual chicken we used. I'm terrible at remembering to take pictures while I'm cooking. [Maybe it's because I'm too busy burning my fingers and messing up the directions.])

Step 1: Read directions. Recipe calls for 1 fryer chicken.
Step 2: Google "fryer chicken"
Step 3: Successfully find fryer chicken in the grocery store without having to call my mom for help.
Step 4: Place chicken in pot full of water and turn burner on high.

It was at this point--when the chicken had been cooking for about ten minutes--that Jordan arrived, looked at the pot, which was just barely below overflowing, and asked me what I was doing.

I try to impress Jordan with my prowess in the kitchen, but a lot most of the time I end up making a ditzy move that he has to fix. In this case, I somehow had overlooked the part where the instructions called for cut-up fryer chicken.

Yeah, I had the entire chicken in the pot.

"I don't think that's right," he said, looking at me then back at the pot. "I'm pretty sure that chicken has all the guts still inside it."

After closer inspection of the directions, I discovered my mistake. So he turned off the burner and fished out the chicken (which he said felt like "touching a person"). Then we both stared at it for a full minute, trying to figure out what we were supposed to do.

I ended up using Google to find a video showing how to cut up a fryer chicken. It took Jordan almost half an hour to complete the task, during which time he narrated pulling out the lungs, heart, and removing what fat he could.

A few times he also said something to the effect of, "See that? That's blood. And...ugh... look at the fat. Makes me glad I'm not a doctor. That's what people look like to them."

I stood to the side, offering to do what I could to help; mostly I think I just annoyed him. After all, it was my fault we were in this predicament in the first place. The least I could have done was warned him that he'd be on chicken duty.

For a guy who once told me the sight of uncooked chicken made him sick to his stomach, he did a fantastic job. He finished cutting it up, we mixed all the ingredients together, and it was quite a success.

He also washed his hands about 8,000 times during the process because he's super careful and scared of food poisoning. And after he finished with the carcass, I made him fish it out of the garbage and take a picture. This is his I-am-completely-grossed-out-and-my-girlfriend-is-making-me-hold-this-and-take-a-picture face.

Then he washed his hands again.

What a trooper.


On a completely unrelated note, this afternoon I was crocheting, and I broke my crochet hook in half. I'm a very vigorous crocheter. Sometimes I don't know my own strength. I'm sure the fact that it was a plastic hook had nothing to do with it.