I didn’t follow through with my shrimp idea at lunch, but had a couple extra chicken breasts (or chicken chests, as my friend Sue’s dad used to call them when we were kids; a name I can’t seem to shake now) left over from the ones I thawed to grill this morning at CBC, which ended up on top of a grilled pizza. (It went over very well, thank you. You should try it.) I also had half a jar of the lime-cumin vinaigrette I used for the corn and black bean salad (which I revived the remainder of with a fresh tomato and handful of parsley), and so poured it over the chicken and let it sit for a bit while I fired up the barbecue.
Or not. It was out of gas.
So I pan fried them. Which seems so dull. I felt like the Mom from any number of household product ads, wearing beige slacks and a tailored blue shirt with sensible flats (except that I wasn’t), sautéing up skinless chicken breasts for my family. Then I gave the dog his heartworm pill and Mike put up my spice rack. Is this that domestic bliss I keep hearing so much about?
All this in 27 degree heat, while W watched Christmas Sing-Along Classics, the only DVD he wanted to bring home from the library today. Fortunately it was the stop-animation version with Rudolph, Frosty et al, but at this rate (I’m also working on a few Christmas articles and planning recipes for some Thanksgiving shows we’re taping on Thursday) I’ll be into Easter by the time I should be Christmas shopping.
Not that I’m complaining.
I wonder what Sarah Palin’s family is having for dinner?