I cooked me a chicken, I did. All by myself.
The whim struck me while I was at the grocery store today. I bought a chicken and set about cooking it for diner.
And in the spirit of legendary food (and everything else) blogger Brigid, I shall now relate how I did this.
First, I got out my beer can chicken rack, which is a rack designed to hold an open can of beer and a whole chicken.
See here for details and cooking tips.
Then I opened a can of beer and drank some.
Whoops. Drank too much. Better finish that one and open another one.
I opened the second one, drank half, then knocked the can over and spilled much of the rest on the floor. Murphy was on it like white on rice, but now I didn't have enough again. Good thing I bought a whole six-pack for this. I finished off that can and opened a third. drinking half, I put the rest in the rack and put the chicken on the rack, then coated it nicely with some cajun seasoning that I found back in my cupboard. I then put it in the oven and celebrated by having another beer.
I then cleaned up the kitchen, had another beer as a treat for cleaning the kitchen, gave Murphy all the stuff that was inside the chicken, then knocked off the last beer because I didn't want it to get lonely. Then Murphy and I adjourned to the living room where we took a well-deserved nap until the oven timer woke Murphy up and he, in turn, woke me up. The chicken smelled GOOD!
I took that sucker out of the oven and it looked like this:
It was fantastic and there was just enough there to ensure than both man and dog were satiated. And now Murphy and I are relaxing out on the deck and I'm just bidding farewell to the last survivor of six-pack number two as the sun goes down. Life, as they say, is good.