Easy Chicken & Gravy
4 skinless chicken breasts
2 tbsp flour
1 tbsp vegetable oil
4 cups cooked rice
1 can (10 1/2 oz.) Franco-American Chicken Gravy
Coat chicken breasts with flour. Cook in skillet in oil 15 min. or until done. Remove.
Stir in Chicken Gravy. Serve with 4 cups cooked rice.
Makes 4 servings
This is -- verbatim -- a recipe I found when I was looking for a chicken gravy recipe. To recap: the way to cook chicken and gravy is to cook chicken and put gravy on top of it. The way you cook the chicken is to cook it until its done. The way you add the gravy is to pour the gravy over it.
Actually, I take that last one back. The recipe does not actually instruct the reader to put the gravy on the chicken. It only goes as far as putting the gravy in the skillet, which leads me to wonder how many hapless would-be chefs have been left standing at their stove looking wildly back and forth between the heated gravy in the chicken pan and the cooked chicken sitting on the plates, wondering what to do next.
Franco-American -- tell me what to do!
10.20.2005
9.19.2005
Grilled Cheese
Lady at the counter two seats away from me: "I'd like a toasted cheese sandwich on rye bread."
Girl behind the counter: "D'ye want the bread toasted?"
Lady at the counter: "Do I want what?"
Girl behind the counter: "D'ye want the bread toasted with that?"
Lady at the counter, who thinks maybe she read the menu wrong: "Uh, well... it's a toasted sandwich."
Girl behind the counter: "Yeh, but just the cheese is toasted. D'ye want the bread toasted too?"
Lady at the counter, who clearly cannot believe she is having this conversation: "The whole sandwich is toasted, not just the cheese!"
Girl behind the counter: "No, its the cheese that... d'ye want the bread toasted?"
Random guy at the counter: "When you make a grilled cheese, you put the bread on the grill with the cheese on it."
Lady at the counter: "Right, the whole sandwich is cooked."
Girl behind the counter: (Mumbles something and goes into the kitchen.)
Girl behind the counter: "D'ye want the bread toasted?"
Lady at the counter: "Do I want what?"
Girl behind the counter: "D'ye want the bread toasted with that?"
Lady at the counter, who thinks maybe she read the menu wrong: "Uh, well... it's a toasted sandwich."
Girl behind the counter: "Yeh, but just the cheese is toasted. D'ye want the bread toasted too?"
Lady at the counter, who clearly cannot believe she is having this conversation: "The whole sandwich is toasted, not just the cheese!"
Girl behind the counter: "No, its the cheese that... d'ye want the bread toasted?"
Random guy at the counter: "When you make a grilled cheese, you put the bread on the grill with the cheese on it."
Lady at the counter: "Right, the whole sandwich is cooked."
Girl behind the counter: (Mumbles something and goes into the kitchen.)
4.01.2005
My Favorite Memory of the Pope
I remember it was 1979, me and the Pope were in a rented top-down '65 Caddy doing donuts in the sands of the Nevada desert, right on the edge of the nuclear testing sites that nobody would admit existed. I heard that back in the days before NASA, Navy flyboys did test runs there of the X-1 rockets and high-altitude flights. Locals thought they were being beseiged by aliens, and of course nobody from the Government would tell them the truth. It's so much easier to make people think they're going crazy than admit that the good ol' Yew Ess Ay was scared of being creamed by a bunch of borscht-eaters.
It was September; the nights were getting chilly but during the day the sun reflected back at you off the radioactive soil like the fires of the underworld. The Pope had Ray-Bans on and zinc on his nose. He was pretty outdoorsy back then -- big on mountain-climbing -- but the dappled sun of European forests was nothing compared to the furnace of the Nevada Proving Ground, and he didn't like sunburn.
We had called Duke earlier in the day, he said he was going to meet us out there later but he'd been out the night before and met a cocktail waitress who claimed she used to be part of the Weather Underground, so it was a toss up whether or not he'd show. In order to guarantee his arrival, I told him I was here with John-Paul II; I knew he wouldn't pass up an opportunity to try on the hat.
Around 5:30 Hunter showed up with a backseat full of beer and a trunk full of ammo.
"Pope!" he shouted. John Paul hit the brakes and turned the wheel sharply; the Caddy spun like the head of Joseph McCarthy at the sound of socialist propaganda.
"Jzhralyrkl!" he called back.
"Whatever, man. I don't speak Polish," Hunter replied and tossed a beer can into the air, firing off a round at the same time. We watched the golden spray of Pabst Blue Ribbon catch the light of early evening sun as the alumium exploded. In the distance was the sound of prairie dogs scurrying from the sound; I had seen one earlier in the day with five legs. That desert bloom can't be good for cellular integrity. The Pope didn't like American beer, but I told him that it was made in Michigan by Polish immigrants, and that seemed to calm him. I think the radiation was getting to him a little.
"How did the night progress?" I asked, thinking he had probably infiltrated the Underground and slipped them all mickeys. Rolling Stone would probably have a big expose on them in two months, telling the whole world about what a bunch of drugged out losers they were. Hunter didn't answer right away. He pulled out a Habana, bit off the end, and spat it out with venom. He offered one to me and one to the Pope, who took it and offered a small benediction. I always liked the way he did that, a little gesture of thanks for every gift. Hunter seemed to like it as well.
"She was cute, but not too bright," he answered. "She thought she was hooked up with some real badasses, but turns out they were just a bunch of rich white kids from Santa Cruz who got fed up with being rich white kids from Santa Cruz and decided to play radical for a while." So no Rolling Stone expose, I figured. He continued, "They never got around to doing more than inventing slogans and reading 'Soldier of Fortune' between hits. Pussies"
The Pope was sympathetic. "Hkvnda, cnzaw. Hpwvy plezgizfr faicygmsy!"
"Damn right," Hunter nodded. "Damn right." I thought he didn't speak Polish. Hunter was always unpredictable.
The sun was setting. The Pope popped the trunk and pulled out a foam cooler full of sirloin tips. He was good that way, always making sure there was plenty to feed all the hungry. We built a fire with saguaro skeletons and mesquite branches. The steaks on the fire filled the dusk air with the primal smell of cooking meat, calling us back to our corporeal existance. He was a pretty earthy guy when he wanted to be, and now was one of those times. The hat and crozier were laying on the back seat. Hunter spied them and asked if he could try them on for size.
"Nmzvcewca," the Pope replied. Hunter pulled out the tall hat and popped it on his head. He still had his shades on and the stogie in his mouth. He took the crozier and swung it like a baseball bat. The Pope laughed and tossed a crushed PBR tallboy at the Duke. The Duke took another swing and knocked that baby out of the park.
We spent the night in the desert around that fire, eating those sizzling steaks cooked on radioactive wood, drinking beers and smoking illegal cigars. When the meal was done we played a little game of stickball with the crozier and those crushed beer cans. The Pope had some of his vestements in the car, so we wrapped up in those after the heat of the desert inferno had evaporated into the starry night. Every once in a while Hunter would jump up and fire off a few rounds. He offered a Kalashnikov and a belt of ammo to the Pope, but John-Paul declined with a small papal wave. Nonviolence was always his game.
He was an alright guy.
It was September; the nights were getting chilly but during the day the sun reflected back at you off the radioactive soil like the fires of the underworld. The Pope had Ray-Bans on and zinc on his nose. He was pretty outdoorsy back then -- big on mountain-climbing -- but the dappled sun of European forests was nothing compared to the furnace of the Nevada Proving Ground, and he didn't like sunburn.
We had called Duke earlier in the day, he said he was going to meet us out there later but he'd been out the night before and met a cocktail waitress who claimed she used to be part of the Weather Underground, so it was a toss up whether or not he'd show. In order to guarantee his arrival, I told him I was here with John-Paul II; I knew he wouldn't pass up an opportunity to try on the hat.
Around 5:30 Hunter showed up with a backseat full of beer and a trunk full of ammo.
"Pope!" he shouted. John Paul hit the brakes and turned the wheel sharply; the Caddy spun like the head of Joseph McCarthy at the sound of socialist propaganda.
"Jzhralyrkl!" he called back.
"Whatever, man. I don't speak Polish," Hunter replied and tossed a beer can into the air, firing off a round at the same time. We watched the golden spray of Pabst Blue Ribbon catch the light of early evening sun as the alumium exploded. In the distance was the sound of prairie dogs scurrying from the sound; I had seen one earlier in the day with five legs. That desert bloom can't be good for cellular integrity. The Pope didn't like American beer, but I told him that it was made in Michigan by Polish immigrants, and that seemed to calm him. I think the radiation was getting to him a little.
"How did the night progress?" I asked, thinking he had probably infiltrated the Underground and slipped them all mickeys. Rolling Stone would probably have a big expose on them in two months, telling the whole world about what a bunch of drugged out losers they were. Hunter didn't answer right away. He pulled out a Habana, bit off the end, and spat it out with venom. He offered one to me and one to the Pope, who took it and offered a small benediction. I always liked the way he did that, a little gesture of thanks for every gift. Hunter seemed to like it as well.
"She was cute, but not too bright," he answered. "She thought she was hooked up with some real badasses, but turns out they were just a bunch of rich white kids from Santa Cruz who got fed up with being rich white kids from Santa Cruz and decided to play radical for a while." So no Rolling Stone expose, I figured. He continued, "They never got around to doing more than inventing slogans and reading 'Soldier of Fortune' between hits. Pussies"
The Pope was sympathetic. "Hkvnda, cnzaw. Hpwvy plezgizfr faicygmsy!"
"Damn right," Hunter nodded. "Damn right." I thought he didn't speak Polish. Hunter was always unpredictable.
The sun was setting. The Pope popped the trunk and pulled out a foam cooler full of sirloin tips. He was good that way, always making sure there was plenty to feed all the hungry. We built a fire with saguaro skeletons and mesquite branches. The steaks on the fire filled the dusk air with the primal smell of cooking meat, calling us back to our corporeal existance. He was a pretty earthy guy when he wanted to be, and now was one of those times. The hat and crozier were laying on the back seat. Hunter spied them and asked if he could try them on for size.
"Nmzvcewca," the Pope replied. Hunter pulled out the tall hat and popped it on his head. He still had his shades on and the stogie in his mouth. He took the crozier and swung it like a baseball bat. The Pope laughed and tossed a crushed PBR tallboy at the Duke. The Duke took another swing and knocked that baby out of the park.
We spent the night in the desert around that fire, eating those sizzling steaks cooked on radioactive wood, drinking beers and smoking illegal cigars. When the meal was done we played a little game of stickball with the crozier and those crushed beer cans. The Pope had some of his vestements in the car, so we wrapped up in those after the heat of the desert inferno had evaporated into the starry night. Every once in a while Hunter would jump up and fire off a few rounds. He offered a Kalashnikov and a belt of ammo to the Pope, but John-Paul declined with a small papal wave. Nonviolence was always his game.
He was an alright guy.
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