I don't know what came over me. I suspect it was a bad angel, or maybe a full-fledged devil, whispering disgusting thoughts into my weak and receptive ear.
However it came about, I have committed an abomination.
Somehow or other a terrible longing reared its head. A longing for… dare I say it? Fried food!
I have one of these small fryer-thingies, originally purchased to be able to occasionally prepare one of the essential food groups -- french fries. Or chips as they are called in Ireland. This treat is enjoyed about once a month, at most. And before the ravening mobs are sent against my flimsy battlements, let me say that I keep the thingie filled with politically-correct canola oil. Surely that is some sort of extenuating circumstance that could possibly reduce the sentence I risk through this confession. I can hope at least.
Anyway. As the need for supper loomed I decided that nothing would do but freshly prepared tortilla chips and chicken-breast medallions, avec vin ordinaire.
You should know that I prepare tortillas, my staple bread-form, from hand-ground, garden-grown masa harina, grilled to perfection on a smooth soapstone griddle dating from Aztec times. (That's a lie -- I get them from WalMart, Mission yellow corn tortillas in the 30-packs, which I usually do up in the toaster oven.)
To continue with my tale of degradation and perversion…
I cut a few tortillas into quarters and dropped them into the pre-heated fry-thingie. When they were dark and crisp I fished them out and dropped them onto a bed of paper towels to drain. Meanwhile, I had pre-microwaved a frozen boneless chicken breast, which I cut into medallions about 1/4" in thickness. Five or six of these I plopped into the seething oil and did 'em up brown.
Finally, I lugged the accumulated crimes to the table and dined on them accompanied by a glass or two of red table wine (I don't believe in white wine).
Scrumptious, it was.
Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.