Allow it to warm to room temperature. This chases the ghosts out of the meat.
Pat it dry. Everyone loves to be patted; your chicken is no exception.
Brine it. Chicken tastes best when it’s been soaked in the saltiness of your sarcasm.
Preheat the oven to some ridiculously high temperature, making your kitchen resemble the bowels of hell.
Remove the chicken from the brine, and pat it dry again. Can never have too much breast patting.
Brush oil over the chicken, and your assortment of herbs and spices. Arrange the breasts so they are not touching. We all cook alone.
Insert the chicken into the oven, and set a timer.
Well before that timer is over, realize the kitchen is smoking up. Swear profusely. Remove the chicken, half-cooked, from the oven.
Have a heart attack as the smoke alarm goes off. Your landlady said the next time you set it off while cooking you’d get evicted. You don’t have the energy to be yelled at by her tonight.
Run over to the smoke alarm that is now beeping loudly in the main house upstairs, as it is wired through the house and doesn’t go off down here anymore. Curse as you fail to reach it the first three times.
Curse more as you press the button and realize the button doesn’t actually work, and the alarm still rings upstairs. The smoke detector makes a weak little whimper down here, which you assume means “I’m sorry I’m in the kitchen, where I scream at burnt toast.”
Plot the demise of whoever designed and installed this worthless smoke detector.
Wait for the oven to stop smoking. It takes days. You forget your own name.
The oven is still smoking. Your chicken is half raw. You are hungry.
Say “Fuck it” and throw the chicken into a frying pan.
Wait for the chicken to cook. Eat half a bag of potato chips while you wait.
Voila! Chicken is done!
You are now stuffed full of potato chips and sadness. The chicken tastes like ash.
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