Just call me Julie . . .

Ever since seeing, "Julie & Julia" and then reading Julie Powell's book, I've been craving meat cooked in lots of butter. And not just any meat, but meat I would have never before considered eating. Like liver. If you haven't read her book, you should. The way she describes the taste of liver makes it sound like the richest, gooiest chocolate cake ever (no, not that it tastes like chocolate, but its that same rich, complete over-indulgence taste). However, the idea of me cooking liver is laughable. I barely cook beef. Boneless/skinless chicken breast and ground turkey are my "specialties." (It's amazing my kids don't think all meat isn't white-ish).

So, on Wednesday I had what I would call my "Julie Powell moment:" I made a new recipe that called for a whole chicken cut up. None of this mamby-pamby boneless/skinless crap. My husband bought it and had it cut up, but when I unwrapped it, I realized that the breasts were too big (ha - not a thought I have had in my life too much; but I digress. . .). So I hacked them in half. I say "hacked" because I had to cut through bone and various other ligament type things. Crunch.

The recipe turned out great and actually looked like the picture in the book. Although it's nothing compared to Julie Powell's stories of cooking bone marrow and aspic, I was pretty proud of myself. And I won't tell anyone that at one point during cooking, I yelled out, "Honey, help - I can't tell which ones are the thighs!"