1. Tonight I cooked some boneless, skinless chicken breasts for use in a soup I'm making tomorrow. I cut all the fat off the breasts and dipped them in flour, then I set some olive oil sizzling in a pan and dropped them in one at a time, flipping them often. This technique has worked beautifully for thin cutlets in the past, but these big thick three-quarter-pounders got brown and tough on the outside long before they'd cooked all the way through on the inside. I cut all the tough bits off and diced the remainder up for my soup, and it'll be fine, but I feel surely there's an easier, smarter way to cook thick chicken breasts. Dear Readers: Any suggestions?
2. Still working on my presentation for next weekend . . . Like all writers, half the time I think I'm a genius and half the time I feel like the sheep author from The Far Side: "Forget it! Forget it! Everything I write is just so much bleating!"
3. I was running on Saturday on the dirt track in Prospect Park, listening to Bono sing "Light My Way," picking up speed, 15th Street in sight, determined to pass through the gates before the song was done, right at those glorious final "Baby baby baby"s -- and I tripped and fell flat on my face, all that momentum ending both in a bang and a whimper. Fortunately I wasn't hurt, other than a few sore muscles in my shoulders, but my beloved Kate Spade-framed glasses snapped right across the nose. I ordered a new pair of specs today, but I'm still consigned to my uncomfortable contacts for the next week or so . . . So if I meet you at Asilomar and tears start running from my eyes, rest assured -- it's really not you.
Baaa-ck to work!
(Sorry. It was right there.)
2. Still working on my presentation for next weekend . . . Like all writers, half the time I think I'm a genius and half the time I feel like the sheep author from The Far Side: "Forget it! Forget it! Everything I write is just so much bleating!"
3. I was running on Saturday on the dirt track in Prospect Park, listening to Bono sing "Light My Way," picking up speed, 15th Street in sight, determined to pass through the gates before the song was done, right at those glorious final "Baby baby baby"s -- and I tripped and fell flat on my face, all that momentum ending both in a bang and a whimper. Fortunately I wasn't hurt, other than a few sore muscles in my shoulders, but my beloved Kate Spade-framed glasses snapped right across the nose. I ordered a new pair of specs today, but I'm still consigned to my uncomfortable contacts for the next week or so . . . So if I meet you at Asilomar and tears start running from my eyes, rest assured -- it's really not you.
Baaa-ck to work!
(Sorry. It was right there.)