Back to future with glorious chicken

 

Dijon Mustard Marinated Chicken Breast Sandwich

The days of excuses how busy I am to cook are over. And so are the days of tossing pizza boxes.

When I and my boyfriend started dating I worked my magic and spiced up his life with my culinary art every day, I fought valiantly with my wooden spoon against the most elaborate recipes and I always victoriously delivered a steaming hot wonder at the end of it.
For the obvious reasons, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.

I slaved in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant, opened the beer with my teeth and all cheerful called from the dining room: 'Honey, dinner's ready.' Just the way it should be.

Months passed, a year passed, two, three years passed and I have become a brilliant take-away hunter and eating-out enthusiast. For the obvious reasons, we are together, he loves me so fuck both the apron and the wooden spoon.

I used to collect spices, now I collect the corners of pizza boxes just to get the tenth one for free. I used to polish cutlery, now I get my plastic fork with Ceasar salad. I used to lay the table and light the candles, now I bring trays and place the pizza boxes on top of them as we would not get greasy knees. I used to rush into the dining room with food sizzling on the plates, now I slide the pizza box across the table with my eyes pinned to the laptop screen.

I sincerely believe that at least over the past year we have consumed more pizza and Ceasar salad than a regular American family. The good thing is though I will never get sick of chicken cesar and my boyfriend will never get sick of pizza so we are good if we feel the urge to skip the kitchen business.

Except. I have come to an alarming conclusion that I could probably lower my boyfriend's life expectancy with the enormous junk food intake or worse, he could break up with me for not feeding him properly.

Thus the perhaps hasty decision that it is high time we started fresh, literally. I missioned to the grocery store, targeted the aisle that screamed healthy, hurried home with two bags of shopping, symbolically took off my shoes, wrapped the apron around my waist,  located pans and pots, dusted the wooden spoon, and went back in time.

I do not usually follow recipes as I am rather lazy to read the instructions. I make my own and improvise. Most of time it miraculously works out, just like the mind-blowing sharp taste of this chicken.

Following the recipe results in having two lousy sandwiches. Tomorrow, pizza time!