INGREDIENTS
- 3-4 bone-in chicken quarters (I used thigh/leg pieces)
- Salt & Pepper, to taste
- 1/3 c. Dijon mustard
- 1/4 c. honey
- 1 Tbsp. olive oil
- 1 tsp. dried rosemary
- 1/2 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes
Preheat oven to 350°.
Remove skin from the chicken (if you want) and sprinkle salt and pepper liberally, if that’s your thing. Place in a shallow baking dish and set to the side.
Combine all other ingredients in a bowl and whisk together. Spoon mixture over chicken and add a couple more dashes of Rosemary on top, but don’t overdo it.
Place chicken in the oven, uncovered, and bake for 45 minutes or until a thermometer reads 180°.
I decided to serve the chicken over 1 c. Jasmine rice with 3/4 c. frozen peas and carrots added. I cooked the rice according to the instructions on the package and added a little salt and half a tablespoon of butter. When the chicken was nearly finished, I steamed 1 1/2 c. fresh broccoli florets in the microwave with just over a quarter-cup of water, then set it to the side.
When I pulled the chicken out of the oven, I heated 2 tsp. olive oil in a sauté pan and toasted a small handful of slivered almonds for about a minute, then added the steamed broccoli along with a drizzle of honey (maybe 1 1/2 tsp… don’t add too much).
Want the nutrition facts for this recipe? Too fucking bad.
A Fifth Date in Which We Eat Chicken and Never Fuck
I set the plates down on the table and lit the two stark white, lonely unscented candles to set the mood. Fucking pathetic wasn’t what I was going for, but the Nords weren’t really aiming for Hudson Bay, either. Standing at the scenic window overlooking the parking lot, I sighed and fidgeted with a pair of cloth napkins that I would probably throw in the trash to avoid having to wash. She was wearing red, a sure sign, or so I’d heard. A sundress. With an unassuming pattern of daisies wrapping around, and here I was in a plain black button-down and khakis as if I were attending a second cousin’s funeral. I took a deep breath and never exhaled, not once throughout all of dinner—dinner in the strictest sense of the term. Just dinner. Maybe I was presumptuous, or maybe I was dull, or maybe… I don’t know, maybe I give off a vibe. This chicken is delicious, she remarked. I know, I said. She shot me a glance, made a face, and examined her plate in more detail. Where’d you learn to cook like this, and I really like the color of your dining room couldn’t distract me from the thought of her head slamming against my headboard which in turn slammed the plum eggshell paint of my wall upstairs, in my brain. I don’t know, I just kind of picked it up, I guess, and Sure, yeah, I’m just glad they let me paint here, unlike my last place. After dinner we watched a documentary on Netflix about homelessness and when she left, the couch retained a soft floral scent that matched her dress. You’re a great cook, she said, but I’m not sure I’m ready for a relationship right now, y’know? Yeah, I know, I thought while packaging the chicken up for lunch the next day. I threw the napkins in the trash and left the pans to soak in the sink, then headed to bed, not quite understanding whether the world was the way it was because I was in it or because it was a predetermined path beaten down by God.
A Mouthful of Fiction 