Do you know what happens when you grow up with a kid with Polio? You vaccinate your kids, that’s what. You know what happens when your cousin gets a teency eency wittle cut on his finger whilst cooking dinner one night? He gets a flesh eating bacteria, and then an amputation, and you get a total, overwhelming neurosis revolving around kitchen accidents, that’s what.

I don’t believe in antibacterial products*. I think kids need to build immunities to the safe, naturally occurring germs in their environment. The bathroom, of course, does not follow in this rule for me. Did you know that when you flush, you spray small droplets of urine and/or fecal matter as high as twenty feet into the air? Um, ew. And hell, my boys still can’t pee in the toilet properly. Bleach, how I love thee.

Anyway, I have this issue with buying antibacterial stuff, and so of course I decided to take up sculpture again, right in the web of my pointer and middle fingers, on the very day I had to roast a freaking gross digusting chicken, and had nothing but regular old olive oil soap to clean it with. Except bleach. Bleach I’ve got. I managed to dig out the neosporin from the bottom of a box, but I am still totally convinced that my hand is going to turn black and rot off any minute now from the 1/2 inch incision and all the poultry guts. And the poopey diapers. Ugh.

Having said that, you’ll understand why this week’s dinner was sort of hard for me to pull off.

The other day, Huckdoll decided to taunt me with the sweet sweet promise of Butter Chicken and then totally, in no way at all, invite me over for dinner to eat some. She’s just mean, that one (wink). But she’s way hot, and so I can forgive her. Anyway, I couldn’t shake the craving for it, so I went out and got all the stuff to make it myself. And then she went and PUT UP A WHOLE POST WITH PICTURES of her Butter Chicken, just to drive me insane. (wink wink).

I thought for sure I should scrap my Saturday dinner in the interest of good e-manners, but god damn it, Butter Chicken is my favorite food in the galaxy and I had to have it. So I totally stole her dinner.

I am not Indian, not even a little bit, but my nieces and nephews are. ALL THE WAY are. Does this make me the world’s leading authority on Indian food? No, it doesn’t. Does it make me get down on my old hand and knees and praise the Gods when Christmas is at their house? You bet your sweet ass it does. Do you wish I’d get with the recipe sharing already? I thought so.

Here is a wonderful Indian food site that has what sounds like the most scrumptious Butter Chicken evs. Go ahead, steal it. This week’s all about stealing. If, however, you have only a waning interest in trying to find garam masala, well then, may I suggest doing as I do, not as I say?

Ok, first I roast one whole chicken that normally I sprinkle inside and out with salt and pepper but this time (see neurotic rant above) a tried really hard to get from the fridge to the pan telekinetically.

There was no way I was touching it. Anyway, roasted, set out to cool. I finely chop up one large onion and throw it in a large saute pan with 3 tbsp. melted butter. I let that cook down for about 3 minutes or so, and then I add 1/2 cup yogurt. 1/2 cup (I think) tomato sauce and 1/2 cup water. Then I pull all the (cooked=safe!) meat off the bird and dice that up, then throw it in the saute pan. To that, and this is the clincher, I add this: Yes, I cheat. I cheat HARD. And I don’t care. This stuff Rocks. My. Socks.

I throw that all on a bed of rice, warm up some of the best bread known to humanity,
and dinner is served.Did they like it? Hell no. They hate it every stinking time I cook it**. I try to tell them that it’s food from their cousins’ culture, and that it’s important that they eat it, and the gosh darn it I know they ate it for Auntie Arti and why the hell won’t they eat it for ME….but honestly, I’m glad they hate it. That just means I get to eat the leftovers in peace all weekend long.

And hey, Hucks, if you’re reading this…I’ll try your if you try mine!

*This is not a subject I am willing to debate. Thank you for your input and kind concern, but you won’t change my mind on this one.

**Why do I keep cooking it, you ask? Fine question. I hate McDonalds, and they keep making me go there. Quid pro quo, bitches.