Slice, Dice, And Trip The Light Fantastic

The chicken nuggets were a hit. I’ll give you the recipe, but you’re probably not going to like it. In fact, if you count yourself within the ranks of the epicurean geek corps of The Alton Brown Army, you’ll absolutely hate it. I say this not because the dish is in any way inferior to the results of Mr. Brown’s culinary acumen, but simply because I don’t go in for pesky annoyances like measurements and baking times. I’m a dumper and a taster, and I cook things until they’re done. For acolytes of Archchancellor Brown’s school of cookery, not measuring things out to the within the most anal retentive degrees of absolute accuracy is the stuff of heretics and heathens. For people more interested in how things taste than how things work, however, dumping and tasting is the accepted dogma when it comes to working in the kitchen and creating truly good eats.

So, I’ll lay out a list of ingredients and give you some general instruction, and the rest is up to you. If your head explodes from indecision in the face of being liberated from the tyrannical rule of recipes, I cannot be held responsible.

What you’ll need:
Chicken breast tenderloins – Pound them, poke them, then hack off the niggly white bits before cutting what’s left into nugget-sized chunks.

A couple of eggs, a splash of water, and some melted butter – put all of that together and mix it up. Use a whisk, if pretentiousness gets the better of you.

Breadcrumbs (I like panko), parmesan, basil, thyme, oregano, garlic powder, paprika, pepper, salt – use as much or as little of each as you need to. Mix it all together and find out if it tastes good by TASTING it. Pretty simple, really.

Plop the chicken into the egg mix, then throw them in the breadcrumb mix and roll them around. Grab a baking sheet, spread some foil on it and blast it with some non-stick spray. Spread the nuggets out on the foil and try to remember that you’re not baking cookies. Chicken doesn’t spread out when it cooks, so cram all of the little suckers on there – just try not to have them actually touching one another. There’s no telling what they’ll get up to in the dark privacy of the oven if they’re all on top of each other going in, so try to enforce a solid No Touching policy before things get out of hand. Cook them for a little while, then turn them over and cook them some more. When they’re done, eat them. Simple. (Ok, maybe ten minutes on each side. There, you got a cooking time out of me. I hope you’re happy.)

If you’re making the golden brown nuggets of tasty delight for your own children, try and keep in mind that kids generally don’t like very flavorful food. They prefer bland, boring, spiceless meals that don’t demand much from their inexperienced tastebuds. However, laying the groundwork for a future appreciation of flavor now rather than later might just save you some dinnertime frustration from a picky eater as life goes on. Work in just enough of the herbs and spices as you think your child will accept, and go from there. Granted, if you make your kid a snobbish foodie now, you’ll have to remember to keep up the good home cooking as they get older, or you might find yourself staring down a familial revolt the next time you try and bring home fast food. You have been warned.

In other news, Brittany and I have most of the wedding preparations behind us. The only major hurdle still facing us now is the selection of music for our ceremonial first dance as husband and wife. However, even as we argue about what song to use, neither of us is certain that we’ll even be able to dance at all. It seems that the church has a strict no dancing policy, which immediately calls to mind the image of an argumentative and freedom loving Kevin Bacon standing in a courtroom, vehemently asking, “What did David do?!”

In this particular case, though, the dancing ban is temporary and not at all for religious reasons. Apparently, a wedding crowd got quite out of hand not too long ago, and the nice (but frail) old ladies of the church weren’t exactly equipped to stop a horde of drunk and saucy bridesmaids crunkin’ it up on the dancefloor and grinding against a veritable wall of eager groomsmen pelvis. Instead, the church elders took a page from the temperance movement and prohibited alcohol by passing their own little Volstead Act, apparently unconcerned with the possibility of a new Al Capone rising from the ranks of Sunday School parishioners. Next, they enacted a temporary ban on dancing to the devil’s music, thus lumping even the benign and boring slow-dancing of middle school sock hops in alongside the wild debauchery of the Lambada – which, as everyone knows, is The Forbidden Dance!

Fortunately, the dancing ban is only temporary. The elders are set to meet again sometime in September – well before our wedding in October – to provide a new ruling. Hopefully, John Lithgow won’t be present to put the kibosh on lifting the ban, and dancing will once again return to the sleepy little town of Beaumont. We shall keep our fingers crossed.

Oh, and about the song we’ll dance to? I’m leaning towards George Harrison’s “Here Comes The Sun” while Brittany prefers the transitory pap of Jason Mraz’s “Lucky”. You can see my predicament. On the one hand, we have a classic from The Beatles that summarizes the dark and miserable times we both had to endure earlier in our lives, even before the terrible and wasted years spent living with our unworthy former spouses finally came to an end. Then, after finally moving on in life and finding each other, the Sun came out in all of its flamboyant and metaphorical splendor to banish the darkness from the rest of our days. Brittany is my Sun, but only in a completely positive sense. A life-giving sun, one of nurturing and of life and of love. A sun that lights up the sky on a beautiful and crisp Fall day, and makes you happy just for being outside. Not a literal sun that heats up the atmosphere, melts polar ice caps, and gives you skin cancer. That type of sun would make the song totally inappropriate for nuptial gyrations, I suspect.

On the other hand, we have the very hip and very trendy “Lucky” that will undoubtedly be played at one-point-twenty-one-quadrillion weddings this year alone, and which neither characterizes either one of us, nor speaks to our mutual experience as a couple. Sure, it’s pretty and sweet and all that, but it’s generic. Normal. Boring. Lame. It’s a typical love song about infatuation, and marriage is built on enduring love, not infatuated attraction. Yes, I’m lucky to be in love with my best friend and yes, I’m lucky to be coming home again, and the lyrics of the song DO fit. I just think my song fits better, and I’m always right. At least, I think I am…

Want some books? 'Course ya do!

NOTE:  I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.

I'll take care of it.

Humor | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

Have you ever lived through an experience that was so humiliating that you wanted to die, but when you tell it to all your friends, they can't stop laughing?

Have you ever made a decision that seemed like a good idea at the time, but you're still living with the hilarious consequences years later?

If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.

You're welcome.

Short Stories
Available now from the following retailers

The nine stories of rage and sadness collected here range from the most intimate of human experiences to the wildest realms of magic and fantasy. The first story is a violent gut-punch to the soul, and the rest of them just hit harder from there.

Those who tough it out will find a book filled with as much hope as despair, a constant contradiction pulling you from one extreme to another.

Life might knock us down, over and over, and will the beat the ever-loving snot out of us from the time we're old enough to give it attitude until the day we finally let it win and stop getting up.

Always get back up.

Gaming | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

This isn't just a book. It's a portal to other worlds where there be magic and dragons and hilarious pirates. Okay, not really. But this book is about those portals, except they're called video games.

The Life Bytes series of books take a deep dive into one man's personal journey through childhood into kinda/sorta being a responsible, competent adult as told through the magical lens of whatever video games he was playing at the time.

Part One starts way back in 1975 and meanders down various digital pathways until, oh, around about 1993 or so.

If you're feeling nostalgic for the early days of gaming or if you just want to understand why the gamer in your life loves this hobby so much, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack this bad boy open.

I'll try to not be boring.

Horror
Available now from the following retailers

What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.

What follows is nothing more than a series of journal entries involving shadow people, sleep paralysis, and crippling fear. It’s not pretty, it doesn’t follow story logic, and nothing works out well in the end.

You've been warned.