I think it's time for a new brand of chicken. Whatever we're getting now makes KFC chicken decadent. This stuff hasn't been plucked well (plucked... OK, lowered into boiling water long enough to scald the feathers all off), and it smells like chicken shit. My grandfather had chickens, I know what I'm talking about, except, he had ten chickens, this is the smell of the refuse of a thousand chickens.
The very thought of it is enough to make me turn vegetarian right here and now. But bacon, chicken nuggets and suasages just don't compare to leeks and carrots, no matter what you do to them. So I'm forced to live with my decision to remain a predator.
Literally, forced. The chicken was eaten last night and the whole living room continues to reek.
This is because I haven't done the dishes yet. Believe me, I tried to do them, but the broiler is caked in a combination of chicken shit and very strong lemony, herby spicy marinade stuff. It's now sitting in hot water and soap. I hope that perhaps the stuff will disintegrate like it does on the soap commercials, but I don't think I will be so lucky. I am beginning to rue having volunteered myself for this task.
It occurs to me that chefs do not do dishes. No one who has ever been up to their elbows in greasy, sticky cooking remnants would invent culinary masterpieces requiring multiple articles of cookware. "Ah, yes, today Ah 'ave prepahr'd a beautiful Soufflet de Bordeaux Chinoise. To beghin, ve get out ahl ze pans in ze kitchen. Trustez moi, ve need zem ahl!"
You know that guy is not doing ze dishes afterwards.
The meals prepared by the dishwashers are created with a fork and a non stick pan. Today, I looked at the cupboards and considered the options.
Mashed potates? Peeler, masher, knife, bowl, measuing cups, pan.
Oatmeal? Requires the dishes I just washed, I'd rather they stayed clean as long as possible.
Spaghetti? Three bowl minimum preparation.
Peanut butter sandwich? One knife.