To Thaw or Not To Thaw? That Is The Question.

God gave me a generous amount of gifts. Cooking skills were not included.

To watch me in the kitchen would feel much like watching a dyslexic child attempt to read “Bleak House” by Charles Dickens. It’s awkward and painful to witness, and you want to offer your help without hurting their feelings.

The constant joke at the lunch table in work, I decided last night to cook a real, adult meal for the week. In the past, I’ve been known to bring in delectable dishes including, but not limited to: tuna (with no mayonnaise or bread), chicken nuggets with shredded cheese and spaghetti sauce incased in tortilla wraps that are stale and immediately break open after your first bite, perfectly cut pieces of ham steak that some co-workers have likened to food “fit for a farm animal,” and the ever popular peanut butter and jelly.

With the belittling comments and taunting in mind, I was determined to make something I could really be proud of. Chicken Korma over rice seemed like just the right dish.

Perfect, I thought. I already had chicken in the freezer and wouldn’t even need to go grocery shopping. In actuality, I didn’t need to go grocery shopping for quite some time, since I had snatched up a giant package of boneless chicken breasts two weeks prior when they were on sale.

Actually, I had gotten everything on sale that week. In both looks and personality, I am my mother’s daughter. And part of that package includes grocery shopping as if you were on food stamps. If it’s not on sale, don’t buy it. This montra was programmed into my brain from a young age. “But I really want a Lunchable, mom!” I would exclaim in the grocery store. “They’re not on sale and we have turkey and cheese at home,” she would reply. Guess what… Lunchables are never on sale. Which means we never got them. To this day, I find something wildly appealing about those overpriced slices of meat in their tiny triangular sections, next to a single Reese’s cup and three crackers.

Lugging my $1.79 per pound chicken breasts out of the freezer with my dear mother in mind, I suddenly realized I had a problem. In the past, I immediately cooked two or three chicken breasts upon purchase, wrapping the other ones individually in tin foil and then putting them in a zip lock baggie in the freezer. This time, though, I put the entire package in the freezer before separating any of the breasts, which was problematic considering I only wanted to cook a few of them this week. I’m no Emeril, but I know you aren’t supposed to thaw a frozen item, only to re-freeze it again later. To be perfectly honest, I have no idea why this is bad. In my mind, to do such a thing would ensure the onset of salmonella, but perhaps the consequences are less severe. Still, I didn’t want to find out.

Staring at the huge block of chicken that had frozen into one large, raw rectangle of former feathers and beaks, I tried to conjure the spirit of Julia Child. How would she separate the chicken? Brute force, perhaps? But my bare hands had proven ineffective. The next logical tool seemed to be the Scream knife sitting in the sink. I wasn’t sure what my roommate had used this murder weapon for but I was pretty certain it had killed multiple animals at a cattle ranch in Texas before landing in our cutlery drawer. This would cut through frozen chicken with ease.

After a few wild stabs, I had gotten nowhere with the chicken. I started sawing at a feverish pace while trying to imagine what a 12” blade would feel like ripping through my flesh. In second grade, my teacher Mrs. Anderson had to leave class early once after her son cut his hand on a knife while separating a bagel. I’ve been wary of blades ever since.

Five minutes into my hacking, the only real thing I had cut through was the Styrofoam packaging at the bottom. Things were going downhill rather quickly and decisions had to be made. Water and rice were spilling over the edges of the pot on the stove as I stood by the counter frozen, contemplating my options. I could only focus on one problem at a time. The rice would have to wait.

Questioning whether or not I had accumulated enough sick days to battle a food-born illness, I made the executive decision to put the chicken in the refrigerator. I would de-thaw it just enough to break through it with a knife and separate a few breasts. The rest would be neatly wrapped and placed back in the freezer with a prayer and a zip lock bag.

I was fairly confident with my decision and moved back over to the stove to get the rice under control. Simple things on the stove have always been a challenge for me. I still remember asking my mother at the age of 14 how to boil water. She was deeply distressed by my question, to which I responded, “Well how would I know! Nobody ever told me how!” I’m not sure why this was of particular concern to her considering my 20 year old brother still doesn’t understand which months make up each of the four seasons.

Once I learned how to boil water, I also learned that the stove is a fickle beast. A beast who mocks me at every turn. Surely I can’t be blamed for the green mashed potato incident of 2007, or the blackened rice I served to guests in Ireland, only after announcing, “Those black things in there aren’t pepper…that’s burned bits.”

Still, nothing quite compares to the kitchen disaster of 1997 (the same year, you may recall, that I shit my pants). Instructed to give a “how to” presentation of my choosing for my English class, I had decided to have my mother videotape me making peanut butter cookies. With the acting ability of a grasshopper, I continued to fumble on take after take. To make matters worse, my mom had suddenly become a stage mother akin to Patty Ramsey and was forcing me to play up all of my actions, at one point directing me to dramatically smell the cookie sheet before giving a thumbs up and making an “ahhhh” sound. With all of these theatrics, we had been at this thing for hours. “This has to be the last take,” my mother had finally said. “We’re running out of battery.”

With that in mind, I walked over to the counter and prepared to crack an egg into the mixing bowl. Too caught up in how my ginormous glasses and greasy ponytail would translate on film, I paid little attention as I cracked the egg, which splattered all over both the counter and my green, oversized Nike t-shirt. Looking back at the camera, all I could think to say was “….mom….” We didn’t have enough film to tape over the incident and as a result, 30 of my classmates were able to get a good laugh at my expense.

My sordid history with eggs and rice in mind, chicken breasts had seemed like a safe alternative. And now here I was, perched on a kitchen chair, wondering if I had destroyed yet another meal. I waited a few more minutes and then removed the chicken from the refrigerator for stabbing attempt number two.

This time the chicken separated fairly easily and with a silent Hail Mary, I put the meat on a baking sheet and slid it into the oven.

I’m happy to report that the chicken turned out just fine! I’m pretty sure there are remnants of raw chicken meat and juice on 80% of the kitchen counter space, in addition to some select door knobs throughout the rest of the apartment, but the important thing is that I averted a crisis.

And if tomorrow I am suddenly sent to the hospital with a terrible case of salmonella, I’ll remember to smile while puking my guts out.

At least it’s a good story.