Wednesday, July 10, 2013

french toast chicken

Great news you guys. I made enchiladas last night and they actually made a leftover appearance. This is HUGE. I just may have a winner here. That, and my husband has guy's night on Wednesdays and wouldn't be subject to my cooking yet again. But let's stay positive, people. Let me make it a few more times and maybe I'll post the recipe. Hell yeah. But really, its good. And simple. Cheers to that.

Let me tell you a story. I don't possess this 'skill' most of you have when it comes to cooking. Baking, yes! Cooking, bad. Sometimes I get really giddy when I see a recipe and I tell myself, "Whitney, you got this. Joe is gonna be so impressed." This has never happened. Joe is a natural at cooking. He doesn't even need a recipe. Just makes amazing meals up on the fly. I don't get it.

One night last year, I thought I would give Joe a nice night to hang out (and drink) while I cooked dinner. I pinned some recipe that called for Chicken and Brown Sugar and Garlic. You've probably seen this recipe and pulled it off flawlessly. We had everything on hand. Even sweet potatoes that this particular recipe said would make lovely mashed potatoes. 

Now I want you to know that I have only cooked chicken one way. Always chicken breast and always in the oven. So I didn't pay much attention to the part that said I had to cook it in a pan on the stove. Well, OK. That part actually scared me, so I purposely ignored it. I'm scared to cook bacon in a pan, so I'm not messing with that.

Chicken goes into the oven all covered with minced garlic and brown sugar and whatever else there was. And of course, I'm feeling like a rock star. The way I always feel when I'm chopping up veggies and mixing ingredients. And every time, something goes way wrong. But I feel good. The sweet potatoes are chopped and boiling, ready to be mashed and mixed with maple syrup. It's going well.

30 minutes later, I pull that damn chicken out and it looks absolutely nothing like the picture. It was light in color and, well, gooey looking. So I decide I should sprinkle on a little more brown sugar and pop it under the broiler. Cause that will always darken up your food. Hell, I've burned enough garlic bread to know that.

Nope. Just more goo actually. But I stand tall. I put that chicken on our plates. That mucus covered chicken, and I ladle on a hefty scoop of mashed sweet potatoes next to it. Some twisted light bulb goes off in my head and signals GARNISH! Joe always has some cool garnish or tasty sauce that he adds to his dinners. 

I grabbed the maple syrup. And I drizzled it over the potatoes. That drizzle may have gotten onto the chicken, too. You know, to tie it all together. 

You guys, the chicken was so gross. And those sweet potatoes did not need a garnish. At all. I couldn't even eat it. My darling husband tried to choke it down. Gooey bite after gooey bite. He tried. I grimaced. And then I vowed to never make French Toast Chicken again.

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