Forest Street Kitchen

As you may have noticed, my activities as a Bad Rad have been seriously interfering with my blogging life. In order to avoid a situation in which I am written off, left for dead, or otherwise cut from the herd, I offer you today a guest entry written by The Friend With Whom I Can Cook. He isn’t nearly as pathetic as he makes himself sound, although I am bit miffed that I have never been offered so much as a gently misted Tupperware container of this caveman/bachelor comfort food. I am therefore unable, personally to vouch for either the recipe or the kind of friend who writes a whole essay about a wonderful dish and does not offer to share. I will say, in a grudging sort of way, that he is a good cook, and that this is probably a good recipe.

Brave Hunter Man Sautees Chicken

I love to cook for other people. To be perfectly clear about the alternatives, I also sit eagerly at anyone’s table as a guest, and I enjoy my own cooking, immensely. However, I noticed (when I lived alone in Santa Barbara as a younger man) that my joyous attempts at cooking elegant and sumptuous meals for myself were always interrupted by a compulsive and somewhat frantic flurry of outgoing phone calls–typically employing the thin disguise of openings such as “hey, howzit goin‘?”–where I tried to find any friend or group of friends to come over in fifteen minutes for dinner.

In a seemingly unrelated set of circumstances (bear with me here), I’ve noticed that when I am wrestling with that dark, tangled den of demons connected with periods of deep personal sorrow, loss, and stress, I crave solitary solace with my own cooking. In particular, I crave meat fat and protein. In a momentary fit of blithe disregard for the pathetic nature of my current unemployment/loss of lover/defeat at the hands of the gods–take your pick–I indulge a crude and viscerally satisfying thought along the lines of: ME BRAVE HUNTER MAN–KILL BISON–EAT RAW FLESH. Of course, seconds later, I’m pouring another glass of Pinot Noir and tearfully meditating on the spiritual purpose of my latest loss. Call me a Renaissance man.

Now don’t get me wrong. Given the option, there is no better salve than the deeply satisfying experience of indulgently immersing oneself–alone–in the ethereal and rarified air of a fine restaurant. M. F. K. Fisher wrote most eloquently on this experience in her book, An Alphabet for Gourmets, in the chapter “A is for Dining Alone.” In case you haven’t had this experience, it costs a lot of money.

Perhaps there is a gender thing here. Frankly, I don’t know for sure. I have certainly noticed that during these times I have no interest in chocolate, ice cream, cake, or any other confection recommended by distaff specimens of the sensitive gastronomical expert club. Though I will gladly order a creme brulee or a port flan in the context of that $150 meal for one at the fine restaurant, my hurt inner caveman has no interest in spoonfuls of peanut butter dipped in chocolate chips and covered in whipped cream.

In the unwanted solitude of my new apartment, I reluctantly furnished the kitchen with a combination of hand-me-down 1950s aluminum pots (hello, Alzheimer’s!) and a set of scraped up bachelor Mirro-ware pulled out of storage. In an attempt at making that $150 last for two weeks, I deliberated at the grocery, trying not to appear too forlorn to any random acquaintance who might walk down the aisle. I frugally chose (for the umpteenth time…) my first set of spices: dried oregano, dried basil, whole cumin seed, and a sturdy pepper grinder with black pepper corns. (Pre-ground black pepper is not a food.) In an attempt to spare the reader any further ramblings, I’ll simply note that, if you think about it, there’s an obvious theme here about the connection between necessity and invention.

So here’s the budget-conscious forlorn bachelor comfort I came up with (serves 1):
Slice a skinless, boneless chicken breast into cubes or strips, being careful to cut across the grain of the meat if you chose strips. Salt and pepper. Sautee this over medium-high to high heat in a little olive oil (about 1 Tablespoon) and a heavy dollop of butter (about 2 Tablespoons–I use unsalted), stirring frequently stir-fry style. Within a minute or so, add: half a large onion chopped and a liberal sprinkling of whole cumin seed. Continue frequently stirring stir-fry style. Within another minute, add a clove or two of pressed garlic, a liberal sprinkling of oregano, and some more fresh-ground black pepper. Then add a Tablespoon or so of high-quality soy sauce or tamari. The oil, butter, soy sauce, and the small amount of chicken fat should form a thin sauce. If patience allows, put this on a plate and use a fork to eat it.

Note to guys: this turns out pretty good with either onions or garlic, if you don’t have both, and the oregano is optional. The cumin is essential, however. Also…accompany with cheap beer or wine and repeat as necessary.

Note to readers of the female persuasion: this can be served nicely in the context of a meal (multiply recipe as needed) over rice with a green vegetable on the side. There’s not much fat, honestly, and one can adjust the balance of olive oil and butter for non-caveman guests and family members.