Murderous Chicken Broth
Who knew?
Homemade chicken broth had always been the cure for the common cold; the key to French cuisine; the favorite panacea of Jewish grandmothers worldwide.
But criminal?
Yes.
Do not be deceived, as I was, by the opaque golden liquid. It holds not just the promise of nutrition and warmth in the dead of winter, but also the potential for eliciting violent thoughts.
I dread to give an account of last night's murderous broth, but it is a morality tale that bears repeating if it saves but one poor wretch from the terrors that lace the night.
Last eve, Mr Amazing Dude and I enjoyed simple fare of crockpot chicken, butternut squash and peas. As we had stewed a whole chicken, we put the bones, cartilage, skin and fat back in the crockpot, covered it with water and set it on low to simmer overnight. It has been our tradition going back many years in our marriage to make homemade broth from leftover chicken. To respect the bird by using every part God gave it.
Alas. I made one fatal mistake.
Dun. Dun. DUN.
Tucked under our thick quilts, Mr Amazing Dude and I slumbered while unbeknown to us, the broth worked it evil magic. Our dreams turned dark and haunted. All night, I either fled for my life or was an unwilling accomplice to (somewhat justified) murders. I even had Sawyer from the series Lost as my partner in crime most of the evening. Thankfully he never tried any romantic moves on me. I'm pretty sure Mr Amazing Dude would have invaded my dreams at that point and added another one to the rising body count.
Morning dawned with customary mid-winter gloom. I rolled over to tell Mr Amazing Dude of the previous night's horrific violence when he growled, "Blasted Chicken Broth!"
It was then I smelled it. That alluring sweet and meaty odor weaving it way from the kitchen through the livingroom down the hall to our bedroom, seducing us to commit murder in our dreams.
"I forgot to turn on the air purifier last night." I confessed. Ashamed, was I, as the machine was needed to disperse the odor molecules so their vile tentacles never reach us during the night.
Mr Amazing Dude shook his head slowly and recounted his dreams, which unfortunately included him accidentally destroying the barrel of his favorite shotgun. I then divulged my lurid nightmares.
"Twas the chicken broth." He pronounced grimly.
"Indeed." I agreed solemnly, but then followed up with, "How's that work again?"
"The broth bubbles and simmers, it's odor causing our stomachs to prepare for digesting protein. It's a lovely, natural mechanism God set in place. Yet, like honey, too much of a good thing, becomes MURDEROUS."
I gasped.
"Yes," he continued, clearly relishing in every detail. "The stomach juices, if not satiated quickly by the promised protein, start to churn and twist your stomach. The hormone released is adrenaline. A terrible thing to produce when one sleeps, as the adrenaline must course it's way out of your system somehow."
That explained the constant struggle between fight or flight all last night. Mr Amazing Dude had mostly fought. and I, I mostly fled.
As my vivid mental wanderings of the night before started to fade, I vowed to tell my friends, lest they fall to the same fate.
Be warned, my fair readers. Do not dabble in the dark arts by making homemade chicken broth at night unless you are armed with the mighty power of the air purifier.
Moral of the story: Buy your chicken broth out of a can marked Swanson.
Wait.
Wasn't that the last name of a serial killer?
Homemade chicken broth had always been the cure for the common cold; the key to French cuisine; the favorite panacea of Jewish grandmothers worldwide.
But criminal?
Yes.
Do not be deceived, as I was, by the opaque golden liquid. It holds not just the promise of nutrition and warmth in the dead of winter, but also the potential for eliciting violent thoughts.
I dread to give an account of last night's murderous broth, but it is a morality tale that bears repeating if it saves but one poor wretch from the terrors that lace the night.
Last eve, Mr Amazing Dude and I enjoyed simple fare of crockpot chicken, butternut squash and peas. As we had stewed a whole chicken, we put the bones, cartilage, skin and fat back in the crockpot, covered it with water and set it on low to simmer overnight. It has been our tradition going back many years in our marriage to make homemade broth from leftover chicken. To respect the bird by using every part God gave it.
Alas. I made one fatal mistake.
Dun. Dun. DUN.
Tucked under our thick quilts, Mr Amazing Dude and I slumbered while unbeknown to us, the broth worked it evil magic. Our dreams turned dark and haunted. All night, I either fled for my life or was an unwilling accomplice to (somewhat justified) murders. I even had Sawyer from the series Lost as my partner in crime most of the evening. Thankfully he never tried any romantic moves on me. I'm pretty sure Mr Amazing Dude would have invaded my dreams at that point and added another one to the rising body count.
Morning dawned with customary mid-winter gloom. I rolled over to tell Mr Amazing Dude of the previous night's horrific violence when he growled, "Blasted Chicken Broth!"
It was then I smelled it. That alluring sweet and meaty odor weaving it way from the kitchen through the livingroom down the hall to our bedroom, seducing us to commit murder in our dreams.
"I forgot to turn on the air purifier last night." I confessed. Ashamed, was I, as the machine was needed to disperse the odor molecules so their vile tentacles never reach us during the night.
Mr Amazing Dude shook his head slowly and recounted his dreams, which unfortunately included him accidentally destroying the barrel of his favorite shotgun. I then divulged my lurid nightmares.
"Twas the chicken broth." He pronounced grimly.
"Indeed." I agreed solemnly, but then followed up with, "How's that work again?"
"The broth bubbles and simmers, it's odor causing our stomachs to prepare for digesting protein. It's a lovely, natural mechanism God set in place. Yet, like honey, too much of a good thing, becomes MURDEROUS."
I gasped.
"Yes," he continued, clearly relishing in every detail. "The stomach juices, if not satiated quickly by the promised protein, start to churn and twist your stomach. The hormone released is adrenaline. A terrible thing to produce when one sleeps, as the adrenaline must course it's way out of your system somehow."
That explained the constant struggle between fight or flight all last night. Mr Amazing Dude had mostly fought. and I, I mostly fled.
As my vivid mental wanderings of the night before started to fade, I vowed to tell my friends, lest they fall to the same fate.
Be warned, my fair readers. Do not dabble in the dark arts by making homemade chicken broth at night unless you are armed with the mighty power of the air purifier.
Moral of the story: Buy your chicken broth out of a can marked Swanson.
Wait.
Wasn't that the last name of a serial killer?
Ya'll are pretty crazy. Even without chicken broth. ;-)
ReplyDeleteThis is hilarious! I don't remember murderous nightmares, but Thomas and I do wake up starving whenever I crockpot something overnight. But I have never made chicken broth with leftover chicken bones either (I hate handling chicken so I usually buy the boneless breasts).
ReplyDelete