In my youth, well and sometimes still today, I liked to drive very fast cars. Racing is either in your blood or it isn’t. It’s in my blood. The saying, “the need for speed” is so real that it can carry over in your every day life. Mowing the lawn; varoom and done. Feeding pets; throw and go with the kibble. Even quilting. Quilting used to be sitting in a circle gibbering and jabbering and sewing with a group of ladies. Busy hands, needles and thread. Now? Zip the quilt in a computer run electronic marvel and your bed is soon covered with a wonderful creation. Well making a quilt really isn’t all that easy. But. Yes a quilted “but.” Compared to the days of yore, quilting today is faster. There is something that I have found should always be slow. Cooking with a slow cooker, aka the Crock Pot.
Of course there is always a short cut right? I am not one to watch too many cooking channels. I have a group of friends though who really watch cooking on television and can tell me the difference between a roux and a brulee. Where as I know it takes my favorite extra buttery flavored popcorn 3.25 minutes to be done, in the bowl and being stuffed into my calmly waiting pie hole. Usually not all that calmly.
I was reading posts from friends on Facebook recently and I saw a picture of what was called Hawaiian Chicken. Man it looked yummy. All covered with shiny flavorful sauce, bite sized chunks of chicken were being spooned onto a plate. I could almost taste the tangy soy pineapple sauce. The picture had a lei of flowers in the somewhat out of focus back ground. The plate being used had palm fronds painted around the edges. A thin golden stripe completed the plate. Man oh man if I could have stepped into that picture I would have taken my favorite fork and dug right in. It looked lip smackin’ good.
I clicked on the post and wrote down the somewhat simple recipe. Then promptly stuffed my hen scratches inside my over stuffed tattered Betty Crocker cook book. One that I have had for longer than even some old career politicians have been in office. Now I know you know how long that could be! Okay, enough commentary.
I thought about that yummy picture a few times. I couldn’t make Hawaiian Chicken until I gathered up all the items needed to make the epicurean delight. Yes I needed chicken. All the rest were just things we “in the know” cooks have in our kitchen hidey holes. Laugh, but when was the last time you took stock of the condiment shelf or shelves in your refrigerator? Pretty sure I could make things from all over the world with the jars and bottles stuffed in there! I loved the bottle of smoky raspberry chipotle that I used for… Huh, I can’t remember.
I eventually gathered everything to complete the chicken from our 50th state. Simple for sure, just put chicken, soy sauce and this-n-that in. Here’s the problem. The recipe: put all in Crock Pot, set it on low, and cook 6-8 hours. Six to Eight hours? Oh no way. I turned it up on high. Figuring that would cut the time at least in half. That speed thing in me. I could wait 3-4 hours. I know myself well enough to leave the house so I would not be lifting the lid every ten minutes on my 45 year old crockery pot. I dug the pot out from the back of a full cabinet. It was behind a bread slicing thingy, a pile of wedding cake pans from a past, past time I had long ago. Oh and a bottle of ibuprofen. Where’d that come from? Must have needed it after making one of those wedding cakes from years gone by.
I left the house for the required hours with the pot on high and the chicken, sauce and all just cooking along. When I returned 3 hours later it was close enough to dinner time that I thought I would dig right in. Now I know when trying a new recipe it is common knowledge to stick to the directions. Like racing. If the owner/builder of the car says to punch it on the back straight away but take it easy just before the turn, you do exactly that.
Let me just say that I shouldn’t have punched that poor chicken on the straight away. Nope and I definitely should have taken it easy on the bird’s last turn.
Flavorful but rubbery chicken anyone?
Trina lives in Eureka, Nevada. Her new book They Call Me Weener is available on Amazon or email her at itybytrina@yahoo.com to find out how to get a signed copy.
Really!
Lynette Murray Lame says
Loved your column. It sounds like something I could have done–or maybe I did!
Trina Machacek says
Hope your chicken didn’t bounce as high as mine did! Thanks for reading. I appreciate your time and words. T :o)