DrMike
Ballistician
- Nov 8, 2006
- 37,314
- 5,981
I've really been on a cooking spree recently. It seems that everything has to have jalapeno peppers. We don't see a lot of them in stores this far north, and when I see them, I buy them and use them. So long as I seed them and sauté them, my wife enjoys them in my cooking. So, the other evening I decided to prepared poulet a la Mike. Hey, it sounds good, and why not name it for myself. So, I crusted a couple of chicken breasts by dipping in a buttermilk wash and then dipping in crushed butter crackers. The delicacy was already looking good, and I decided to sauté an onion and five or six peppers. After these were almost ready, I added six or seven cloves of garlic and sautéed just a bit longer. It was certainly colourful. I tasted by topping, and decided it needed just a little more kick. We try to keep a few tins of chipotle peppers around, buying more each time we venture across the line into the USA. ("Do you have anything to declare?" Three cases of chipotle peppers and five cases of hominy." Staples, you know.) Now, both my wife and I love the smokey flavour of chipotle, but I really wasn't certain how many peppers to add, so I took about half of the small can and finished my topping. It certainly smelled good, and after baking to perfection (internal temp of 160 degrees) the kitchen was filled with a most delectable aroma.
When my wife came home, I couldn't wait to plate her food and present my piece de resistance. I have made my famous Uncle Mike's garlic mashed potatoes and peaches and cream corn. It was one of the most colourful meals imaginable.
My good lady could hardly wait to tuck into that fine looking piece of fowl. We returned thanks and she immediately lifted her knife and fork and cut a piece, including a generous amount of the beautiful topping. I knew when I saw her eyes widen in surprise that I may have a hit. However, the beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead quickly created a sense of impending doom.
After a couple of glasses of milk, she managed to croak, "How many peppers did you put on there?"
Stunned at her lack of culinary sophistication, I answered nonchalantly, "Just a few."
"I put half in an entire casserole," she stammered between gulps of water.
"Yeah," I said, "that's what I put on--half."
"No! I mean half a pepper!"
"Oh, I meant half a can."
You know I wound up with chicken for lunch the next day with all the topping I would want. However, it sure was pretty.
When my wife came home, I couldn't wait to plate her food and present my piece de resistance. I have made my famous Uncle Mike's garlic mashed potatoes and peaches and cream corn. It was one of the most colourful meals imaginable.
My good lady could hardly wait to tuck into that fine looking piece of fowl. We returned thanks and she immediately lifted her knife and fork and cut a piece, including a generous amount of the beautiful topping. I knew when I saw her eyes widen in surprise that I may have a hit. However, the beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead quickly created a sense of impending doom.
After a couple of glasses of milk, she managed to croak, "How many peppers did you put on there?"
Stunned at her lack of culinary sophistication, I answered nonchalantly, "Just a few."
"I put half in an entire casserole," she stammered between gulps of water.
"Yeah," I said, "that's what I put on--half."
"No! I mean half a pepper!"
"Oh, I meant half a can."
You know I wound up with chicken for lunch the next day with all the topping I would want. However, it sure was pretty.
