April 8, 2004
I’m so distracted with my two-handed Fair Isle practices that tonight I managed to burn a pot of boiling macaroni. Do you know how long a pot of macaroni has to boil before it gets to the burned-on-the-bottom stage?
In other news of my increasing distraction, I bought a chicken the other day, intending to inaugurate the barbecue season with a festive grilled chicken. I am so busy thinking about my knitting that I punted on the “grilled” part of the grilled chicken idea and decided to go for “indoor” “grilling” also known as my oven. None of that pesky charcoal fiddling. And closer to the red-hot center of my universe, the pile of yarn balls that need my utmost attention.
Now. Some of you may have heard of a recent grilling fad. You take a chicken. Open a can of beer. Poke holes in the can. Drink some of the beer. Sit the chicken on the beer can, kind of a standing-up chicken tripod deal. Roast the thing. Drink more beer while you’re watching the chicken roast. After two hours you have a tender, beery bird. If it doesn’t turn out, well, the beer you drank takes the sting out of your failure.
Of course, if you’re distracted like me, you neglect to buy any canned beer for the beer can chicken. So you (desperate to cook the chicken before it starts to smell weird the way that other chicken did last week) dump out a Diet Coke, and fill the can with Amstel Light.
Here is what I ended up with for supper tonight:
“Indoor” “Grilled” Diet Coke Can Chicken