Warning: This post may contain bad/bleeped words!
Since we had some chicken that was nearing its eat at your own risk date, I decided to make stir fry for lunch. I’ve made this chicken stir fry many, many times and without incident. That is, until today.
It all started with the damn broccoli. You know how some supermarkets sell heads of broccoli in plastic bags that are held shut by super strong scotch tape from hell? Well, I tried to break that tape by pulling it apart with my hands. I pulled and I pulled and all I accomplished was nearly severing my fingers. Yes, I could’ve simply pulled the plastic bag apart, but I wasn’t letting the sumbitchin’ tape win! Frustrated (pissed off is more like it), I took a sharp knife and vehemently cut through the evil plastic which was keeping me from my favorite cruciferous vegetable. Feeling vindicated, full of myself and super mighty, I cut the tape off the next bag of broccoli. With a satisfied grin on my face, I slit open the third one, too. Take that!! Ha ha. I blew on the end of my knife as if it were a big ass shotgun — or, like I was blowing out birthday candles — something that makes me seem a little less maniacal.
Next, it was the onions. We keep ours near the sink in a lower cabinet drawer. I reached down, pulled the drawer open and grabbed a couple of small onions, closed the drawer and began the peeling and chopping process. I routinely sauté the broccoli by itself for a few minutes before adding the other ingredients while I also stir fry some cauliflower rice in a separate skillet. Everything was going as planned, the chicken joined the broccoli in the wok and it was time for the onions. I walked over to the counter on the opposite side of our kitchen where the chopped onions awaited on my favorite red plastic chopping board. I picked them up then spun around, a bit too enthusiastically, back toward the stove. Half of those damn onions flew off the board onto the floor [insert my eye roll]. Fine! I’ll just chop another onion and you can just lie there on the floor for all I care! I removed the broccoli from the stove so it wouldn’t burn and headed back to the onion drawer.
There was only one small onion left in that little mesh bag marked “sweet onions,” and I couldn’t find the opening. Obviously, there had to be an opening in this sumbitchin’ bag, otherwise it would still be full of sumbitchin’ onions. I turn it around and around trying to find the opening without success. I even tried to rip the mesh apart with my hands, because that worked so well with the bags of broccoli. At this point, I’m so irritated and seriously through with things being so difficult, I took that bag, the one holding my onion captive, and proceeded to beat it against the open drawer. Onion skins flew everywhere! Breeeeathe. Relentless in my pursuit of that damn onion, I finally got the cotton-picking thing out by cutting a new hole in the bag with my sharp knife (the same one which freed my broccoli)…well, I may have cut a few. Or maybe shredded it completely. Nevertheless, my lone onion was freed and was, surprisingly, still in good shape after its brutal assault. I figured it would be paste. So, I chopped it up and placed it with the others — the ones that didn’t jump ship. By this time, the cauliflower rice was done and I moved the skillet to a burner that was not being used. I scraped the onions off the cutting board and set it aside. A few minutes later, my stir fry is complete and it’s time to do some eating. Ah, paradise.
After I retrieved a bowl from the cabinet, I went to move my cutting board out of the way. I picked it up and it felt uncharacteristically heavy, seeing as there was nothing on it. In the midst of all this, I had laid my favorite red plastic cutting board on the hot burner where the cauliflower rice had been cooking. When I picked it up there were lots of hot, red strings stretched out like tentacles trying to keep the board attached to the stove. Yet another mess for me to clean up. Yay!
At long last…the onion skins along with the dropped onions were swept up, the melted cutting board was cleaned off the stove and its remains tossed in the garbage, and my delicious, hard-earned meal was ready to eat. I paused for a moment, standing in front of the stove, just admiring my culinary masterpiece. I felt proud of myself for conquering all the obstacles that attempted to impede the realization of this delicious lunch. As the wonderful aroma of chicken stir fry tantalized my tastebuds, I reached for a large spoon to fill my bowl and said, “F**k it. I’m eating a turkey sandwich!”
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