I made Chicken Parmesan tonight for the first time. I rarely use my oven because it always smells like gas when I turn it on, but today the repair company came and told me it was good to go. So I decided to take it out for a spin right away, and Chicken Parmesan is something I’ve been dying to make.
I bought two pounds of thin sliced chicken breasts, which was double what the recipe called for. I figured if I was cooking, I might as well make enough for seconds, thirds and leftovers.
Now here’s where it gets interesting. The recipe, which I chose from Pinterest, said it would take and hour and ten minutes to prepare. Nope! I don’t know where they got this number from, but it ended up taking about two and a half hours. Two and a half hours of hard labor, actually. I mean it was a great experience, and it came out incredibly well, but it was a struggle. I was sweating profusely inside my small kitchen, what with the oven blasting away and the burners occupied with pasta and marinara sauce that I accompanied it with.
I wouldn’t say that I was stressed, exactly, but more that I was very busy, and I felt like I was working the whole time. The recipe called for baking the chicken, smothered in sauce, for 40 minutes in the oven, before adding mozzarella cheese and cooking for 10 more minutes. So theoretically during those 40 minutes, I should have been chilling. But I was fully engaged with thoughts of what came next, what I’d just done, and I was consumed by a bone-dry weariness. I was beat, exhausted, and, well, I guess I was stressed after all.
When I look back on the process, most off it is a blur. I really don’t remember when I made the breading mixture, when I cooked the pasta, or how much sauce I used. The one event that really sticks out is when I breaded the chicken breasts. That was incredible. It was raw, sensual, and exciting. Following the recipe, I had prepared a 6 egg and milk mixture in a small bowl, to be used as a binding agent. I then poured 2 cups of parmesan cheese, 2 cups of Italian seasoned bread crumbs, basil, salt, black pepper, oregano, and thyme into a large bowl.
I had 6 thin sliced chicken breasts, and the task was to dip each one in the egg and milk mixture, then lay it in the breading mixture for a second, let the breading adhere to it, flip the chicken breast, and let breading adhere to the other side. That’s what breading a chicken is all about, apparently.
When I dipped the first breast into the milk and egg mixture, my hand quivered from the coolness of the mix. I had raw chicken, smooth and slippery, in my hands, and the egg milk mixture blended with the chicken to create a milky soft gooey feeling. It was an extremely sensual experience, mixing all these primal ingredients together. I was awed.
Then I dipped the breast into the breading mixture, and let it lay flat. When I lifted it up after about three seconds, it was coated with a cheesy, bread crumby, herbalicious blend of goodness. I felt as if I had just popped my chicken’s cherry, that it had lost its virginity and become coated in human sensuality. I dipped the other side of the breast into the mixture and let it lay for another three seconds or so. When I lifted it it was equally coated with cheese, bread crumbs and herbs.
The breast was now a sight to behold. Ten seconds ago it had been naked, vulnerable, and open, and now it was dressed, coated, and sealed off to the public. It was all grown up.
I lay the breast reverentially in a large skillet coated with olive oil, and began the process again with the next breast. Eventually I got all six coated and began cooking them in the skillet.
The rest of the 2 ½ hours of cooking time is kind of a blur. It was hard, is what I remember most. But I’ll never forget breading that chicken. I think it was the first time I’ve ever breaded chicken, but it won’t be the last.
I finally sat down to eat dinner in my narrow kitchen around 9:30 PM, having started cooking at 7:00. I dished out a chicken breast on my plate, served with a hefty heaping of pasta with marinara sauce and some parmesan cheese sprinkled on top. I dug into the chicken breast first, and wow, was it good. I was met with flavors of very strong garlic, salty cheese from the two cheeses, and then an overwhelming, rich, earthy tomato sauce flavor. I had used a jar of Michaels of Brooklyn Filetto di Pomodoro sauce from my local supermarket, and when I sampled it cold it didn’t taste like anything special. But I guess that 50 minutes in the oven really opened it up and brought out the rich flavor that a good red sauce can possess.
I had a second bite of the chicken, then a third, and then switched to a bite of the pasta. I hadn’t had pasta in about a year because I was watching my carbs, so this was a real treat too. I love pasta as much as the next person, and I had forgotten just how incredibly delicious and luxurious it can be.
Before I knew it I had finished the chicken, and I considered a second piece. I debated whether or not that would be too indulgent, but quickly decided that I had just worked my ass off and I might as well enjoy it. So I did.
I polished off the second breast and the rest of the pasta, pushed my chair back from the kitchen table, and let out a sigh of relief. I was finally full, and all the stress of the cooking was behind me. The dish had been unbelievably good, and as I was eating it I felt transported to another place, perhaps to Italy, perhaps to a red sauce joint in New York’s Little Italy, but most definitely to a restaurant. Because it was that good. I mean it really was restaurant quality, and I’m not saying this in a cocky or arrogant way. It’s just that it tasted like what I’d been eating at Italian restaurants in NYC since I was a little kid. So that was cool.
When I look back on the whole experience now, from the preparation to the cooking to the eating to the dishwashing, I think to myself, was it really worth it? But my answer is yes, definitely, it was. It was labor, it was stress, it was hard work, but I made something, I created something, out of raw ingredients. And that’s an incredible feeling, it really is.
It’s 11:30 pm now, and I’m going to just lay down on the couch and chill, maybe listen to something on Pandora. I’m tired. But I’m also wired. Making chicken parmesan was one of the most stressful cooking experiences I’ve ever had. But I guess if you want to have something great, you’ve got to put in the work. I mean a microwave can’t make something like what I made tonight.
So that’s my story. I plan on continuing to cook, and to try new dishes as often as I can. It’s just so rewarding, so why wouldn’t I? Who knows what’s next? Maybe a Coq au Vin. Maybe a Paella. Whatever it is, it’ll be an adventure. And that’s why I love cooking. Each time you make something, you get the chance to experience something new. So here’s to cooking. May it continue to brighten our lives and our dinner tables.
