I said last night this blog had veered away from its origins--writing, cooking, and grandchildren (well, not the latter). Tonight it's purely cooking, and its bragging on myself. It was one of those days that I didn't know what I wanted--nothing struck me as right. So when I came home I defrosted two boneless chicken thighs and decided I'd figure what to do with them later. About six, I snapped some green beans and put them on to steam, and then looked at the chicken, remembered I had a recipe Jordan and I had liked. Got it out and it called for browning, making a sauce and reducing it, and then roasting for 45 minutes. Sorry, it was six and I wanted my supper. So I pounded the thighs flat, floured them, browned them, and took them out of the skillet. Added some garlic to brown, then some chardonnay--not quite half a cup--and cooked it down a bit, added a half cup chicken broth, a bay leaf, and some thyme, and simmer the whole thing util it thickened. Put the chicken back in to warm, rewarmed a few of the beans with butter and salt, and had the most delicious dinner. I was tempted to lick the pan that sauce was so good--okay, when I got it back in the kitchen, I really did lick it. And I have one thigh left for when I eat lunch at home Friday.
I've been eating out more than usual this week--lunch Tuesday with a colleague and friend, breakfast today with an author from Arizona, lunch with an old friend from TCU administration, lunch and dinner out tomorrow. Tis the season.
Tis also the season when I feel things piling up but don't know what to do in advance--can't pack now for a trip ten days from now. Can't eve pack tonight for my one-night visit to Frisco this weekend. Packages are all wrapped, and I'm figuring about getting them to people. Can't get serious about writing with the holidays looming. So I guess I'll read. Am in the midst of Carolyn Hart's Death of the Party and enjoying it.