We got some variously marinated chicken bits in the shop the other week, with the idea being that we’d cook them to have with tea or for Carole to take for lunch during the week.
That plan went the way of all well-thought out plans and we did none of it for one reason or another. It was a very disorganised food week for both of us, in fact.
But today I cooked up some of the chicken to have in a tasty sandwich.
I just whacked it in a frying pan and cooked it, basically. No frills, no thrills. Just cooked it. It was Cajun in flavour and the first bite made me do that cough that people do when flavours and/or spices hit them for the first time.
I happened to glance at the packet, though. And apparently I was supposed to cook it in the oven for half an hour.
Which seemed strange, considering it was titled as some sort of sizzling chicken. And chicken doesn’t really sizzle in the oven. It sizzles in a hot pan, or over a barbeque, say.
And speaking of barbeques – had I chosen to go all “me man, me make fire” to cook it then I should, apparently, have cooked it in the oven for the allotted time and then introduced it to the barbeque briefly to allow it to conjure the illusion of food cooked over hot coals.
Is that how we do barbeques now? Because people routinely undercook food on barbeques, you are advised to precook the food in a way in which you won’t undercook it and then sort of warm it so it gets a bit of soot and smoke on it before devouring? Somehow it seems to take away quite a lot of the raw primeval processes of cooking on a barbeque if part of your prep is preheating the oven as well.
Anyway, I dry-fried mine. And I ate it. And I have not, as yet, some ten hours later, crapped my guts out or anything. So screw you cooking instructions.