Chicken?

Googling recipes for cast-iron pan-fried chicken.

I’m going to “make a mess” as Mandy, my grandparents live-in cook, used to say. I have that heavy black pan that she used for everything 60 years ago.

All she needed to start cooking was Crisco and this pan. Just start frying something.

My own approach is a bit different.

4:30am, 3, vodka shots to get started, 4 vape encounters, some flower dabbed with the last of the shatter.

Normally I would be in the gym around now, but you know what? I’m tired of being a responsible adult. So you know what? Fuck it.

Rinsed, dried, organic chicken thighs. Then the usual suspects: grind some salt & pepper and massage those thighs with garlic powder and paprika.

Serve up pan fried chicken, wilted spinach, fried tomatoes with basil leaves from the sunshine pot on the front stairs. Mashed up local potatoes, skins on.

A few more shots.

Buck Owens competing with “Valhalla Rising” on the screen. The movie giving lessons on how to safely tie and eviscerate someone who isn’t your best buddy. Cut their belly low, all the way across, help their entrails fold gently down onto the ground in front of them so they can watch. 

No splashing.

Chicken?