Remember the time I had friends over for dinner and I torched the kitchen?
Last night I invited them over again in the hopes that I could redeem my hostess skills. I decided to make Thomas Keller's fried chicken. This chicken is so good it kind of makes me weak in the knees when I take my first bite. It's juicy, spicy, crunchy and everything fried chicken should be.
I knew with this recipe there was no way I would fail.
Unforch, the breasts on my little chickens must have been thicker than usual because, despite frying them for the recipe prescribed amount of time and keeping my eagle-eye watch on the frying thermometer, the middle of the breasts were raw.
I'm not talking a little underdone, here people. I mean pink, squishy, cold RAW!
I was horrified when I saw my sweet guests politely picking off the outer crust and attempting to eat around the nasty embarrassing rawness. The ear doctor whipped the offending breasts off their plate and replaced with perfectly done thighs, but I couldn't believe I'd let it happen.
These people are never going to come back to my house. Ever. And, really, I don't blame them. I'd be pretty hesitant to return to a house that first tried to asphyxiate my child and then poison me with salmonella.