Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Dear Baked Pesto Chicken Dish

Dear Baked Pesto Chicken Dish,

You are mine.

Don't even to begin to think for a moment that you belong to my ex-boyfriend's wife.

I mean, I bumped into you while visiting her Facebook page (more evidence that she and I would have gotten along; you know, if she hadn't so rudely broken up The Man and me and then went on to marry said man; she misses Obama as much as I do; unrequited BFFs forever!).

Not that I spend that much time on her page, mind you. Only occasionally, OK? When the urge hits. The curiosity.

And thank heavens for that BECAUSE THERE YOU WERE.

Just sitting there, waiting for me to happen upon you.

Do you remember how I looked you up and down? You didn't shy away from that. Not at all. You just let me look. So simple. So straightforward. I like that in a dish.

But then!

Our first date!


Wasn't so good, was it? I mean, it wasn't AWFUL. It's not like I felt sick over it the next day. But I expected it to be better, for the evening to have more flavor. But that's what happens when we're too careful, right? When we use what we have because it's safe (in this case, jarred pesto) instead of doing a little investigating and realizing that the tub of pesto in the refrigerated section by the deli meats is the way to go.

But our second date?

Like that scene from The Brady Bunch when Bobby kisses the girl and sees sky rockets.

Sky rockets in flight. Afternoon delight! 


We had fun, didn't we, with our pound of dirty bird? (Or, at least, no need to wash! Does that make the chicken tenders dirty, by definition?)

Then the roma tomatoes. Or were they plum? I still don't know what the difference is, and this time, instead of lamenting that the grocery store didn't have the specific ones called for, I just went with what was there and forgot about it.

Oh, fresh mozzarella! The balled up kind that could possibly be my new adult Play-Doh fixation.

And finally, pesto! From the deli-meat fridge!

The layering. Oh-the-glorious layers.

Chicken. Then spoonfuls of pesto. Then tomatoes. SALT AND PEPPER THOSE SUCKERS. Don't think we had enough the first time. Then the mozzarella. Plenty of Italian seasoning. And a smattering of Parmesan cheese. Bake in a pre-heated 400-degree oven for 40 minutes. Or 45, as in our case, because we like to make it last.



What a wonderful evening!

So, how 'bout it, baked pesto chicken?

Let's meet up for a third date?


You have no choice!

You can't say no!

The break-up woman got The Man.

But I got you.


PS: Next time, let's add some pinot grig. On me.



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