Let me start by saying that I am the mother of four which, in and of itself, is a ball of crazy. I rarely watch television so when I get the chance I tend to be, um, mesmerized. And I have taken the phrase multi-tasking to a whole new level. Some people knit; I multi-task. Some people help the poor, read to the blind, craft stuff. Unless I can do all three of those things at the exact same time, I'm not interested (especially the crafting part), but I digress.
Back to the multi-tasking. Recently I found myself watching a cooking show on television while on the phone with a friend while scheduling a meeting via my iPhone and trying to corral the aforementioned children. The host of the show - I won't say who - was pounding out chicken to create beautiful, delicious, simple sandwiches. Her words, not mine. And since you asked, it was Sandra Lee. I think she might craft stuff too. Anyway, I mentioned this recipe to the friend on the phone - I won't say who - okay, it was Katie Vail. And that, folks, is how I ended up with the Monday Morning Massacre.
Katie, sweet girl from the south who has the most gracious manner but also knows how to shoot a gun which is a winning combo in my book, told me that in her world - aka South Carolina - one simply placed random meat and poultry in a zip-top bag and ran over it to achieve desired flat-ness. Yes, ran over it. Like with the family 4-door Ford.
Say no more! Dinner was practically done! My sister, visiting from yet another southern state, was on board. I would be the driver; she would be the traffic controller. So on a snowy spring morning in Denver, still in our pajamas and with a gaggle of children occupied by a puzzle, we took our gorgeous chicken, safely tucked in a plastic bag, wrapped it in that morning's Wall Street Journal, and headed for the driveway. What happened next was, well, disturbing. Rebecca placed the packet o' chicken under my left tire; of my Chevy, my Chevy Suburban. After the universal hand signal for "go" she covered her face, shut her eyes and - I am assuming here as Tom Petty was singing about American Girls on the car radio - screamed.
The chicken didn't exactly "flatten". Instead it - oh what's the word here? - EXPLODED. Half of it burst from the bag as if trying to escape and the other half shredded into many, many, many (raw) pieces. Some pieces ended up in the grooves of the tire, though most smeared nicely into the crevices of the driveway. It was a bad scene. It was also a good night to order a pizza.
I am a sucker for ideas that really are too good to be true. Is it because of sources like Pinterest, the magic of television, and the quest to save time that I have tried (and failed) at newspaper nail polish, cookie cups, decoupage, and Five-Minute Lo Mein? It could be. But the lesson for today is this: think before you flatten. If an idea seems bad (cutting your own hair while drinking wine is a good example, not that I would know), then it probably is. But one of these days, an idea is going to stick like poultry to a tire. I am not chicken! I am still game! The driveway? Just gamey.
Have you had any of your own Monday Morning Massacres? I want to hear about them! Post them in the comments below.
Communications and Community Outreach Director
Epicurean Culinary Group