I am an artist. Pronounce that with a French accent and you will have it right.
I may not look like an artist. I may not look like a person that dabbles in oils or like the kind of person that cannot be bothered with another faboulous art gallery opening. But be that as it may, it does not change the fact that I am an artist (please once again insert the French accent."
However, my medium is not clay or water colors. It is not in metals and I don't experiment with large scale social protest pieces. I am not a performance artist and I am not a shock artist.
I am a superdad artist who's been reluctantly thrown into my creationism kitchen. I have two children and it would appear that these children need to eat. As Hossmom is currently filling in on breast duty, most of the cooking falls to me and as such, I have become the DaVinci of Chicken.
Of course, I find that ordinary chicken is in fact to ordinary for my culinary greatness. It is normal, it is every day. It is what they serve at High School Proms when everyone really wanted shrimp but the school wouldn't pay for it. It is low brow and it is blue collar. Chicken soup for the soul, indeed! I spit on chicken.
But like I said, this was not my choice on how to express myself. The choice was made for me by capitalism. It was made for me by evil corporations that instead of giving us something of quality they throw cheap quanity in our faces. And how dare I, a mere genius at what I do, turn up my nose at low low prices. Damn you Costco and your 24 pack of chicken breasts for a very affordable low low price. You know that I could not resist it as I am forced to save money as Hossmom gets no maternity leave pay!
How could I not buy the chicken. I was dazzaled by the opportunity and could not think clearly as I am an artist and not prone to logical thought. It did not dawn on me that we would have to have chicken for 12 straight nights. 12 nights of chicken is not like 12 nights of Christmas. It is chicken this and chicken that. Here a chicken, there a chicken, everywhere a chick chick chicken.
So the gaulent was thrown to me, the artist (again, the french accent please) to create 12 seperate chicken type dinners. My medium was thrown at me and I took it. I took it because I am also a starving artist and must make greatness out of what the good lord provides.
I shall start grand! I shall show my family that, yes, Hossman can make a decent chicken dinner! This is not a skill that I have learned. This is not something that I went to school for. This is something that is born into me and I will take that and make it world renown!
I have never cooked before but I would not let this drawback affect my vision. My offering to my family is about passion! The food will be cooked with excitment and valor! So come, my chicken breasts, and let me mold you into eternity!
I take a few cookbooks that my mother in law gave me. I may have wanted a new tool, but cookbooks it was. So be it, they are coming in handy. Yes, page 137, there is a meal plan that shall have flavors exploding like Zeus throwing thunderbolts! Chicken Diane, named after the near saint princess that is my inspiration. This is for you England's Rose!
I am sweating. It is hotter in the kitchen that I imagined it would be. There are pots and pans boiling all over the place. I throw spices around like I am orchestarting the New York Harmonic. With each flick of my wrist rosemary or cumin go tumbling toward the dishes. What's this, cinnamon? Of course, my genius is free flowing, it is pouring out of me like the 1/3 cup of chicken broth.
There is applause from Little Hoss as she sees me in my element. She claps and laughs. Yes baby, witness what superdad can do! He has never cooked a day in his life but today, yes today!, he will make you a dinner besides hot dogs or reheated nuggets. Today he delivers unto you mouth watering spicefest 2007!
I call everyone to the table. This was the hottest ticket in town as there were only 4. The press is calling nonstop looking for my quotes. Like any great artist, I spit on them and say nothing.
Each member of the family is served what can only be described as the chicken version of the Mona Lisa. It is smothered in a sauce, who knows what's in it? There are even potatos and for that touch of home, I added a few slices of wonderbread to each plate. My public awaits!
I cut the chicken for Little Hoss and put a little piece under her nose. I let the aroma tease her sensations. I can see the expectation and she knows that I feed her this greatness now so that one day she will grow up and erect a statue in my honor, superdad.
She takes the fork and opens her mouth. Salvia is dripping from her lips. She inserts the piece of chicken. I await my glory.
She spits it out.
She spits it out, looks right at me and says.....
Ow? Ow? T hat's my reaction after 2 hours in the kitchen? She won't take another bite as it would appear that my greatness in the kitchen causes phsyical and immediate pain.
It would appear that I'm not understood in my own time.