I think I have a problem. I may be morphing into some weird version of a stereotypical manly man. I’ve always had tendencies, but this is getting ridiculous. Stay with me.
I hate doing my nails. I’ve perfected the art of tuning people out, as necessary. If you offer me a beer, I’ll take Guinness over Mich Ultra any day. And if you don’t have Guinness, a little bourbon or some brandy neat will do just fine.
I don’t own a hairdryer. I don’t really like Madonna. And given the choice, I’d pick Shark Week over a What Not to Wear marathon. Every time. (Though I realize this comparison is a bit of a stretch: both species can be pretty ruthless.)
So the aforementioned evidence, plus my burgeoning—borderline unhealthy—relationship with my grill has elicited slight concern. (Take away my tongs and I may throw you into a headlock.) I figure while I deal with these Y chromosome traits, I might as well enjoy some grilled chicken. And as part of my new Sunday summer night grilling series, the chicken this week did not disappoint. It was extraordinary.
I should also mention that I spent some time on Saturday with said chicken, breaking it down into legs, thighs, wings and breasts. After letting it hang out in a spiced yogurt marinade overnight, it charred to juicy perfection on the grill. While you could certainly buy the bone-in pieces, the inner guy in me was looking for a task to conquer.
It was worth it. This chicken was like nothing I’ve tasted in a very, very long time. Said in a bad Barry White impersonation: baby, you’ll love this chicken. So go ahead, make the chicken. And maybe smash a beer can over your head. No, you are probably too smart for a cheap party trick like that. But on the off chance that you aren’t, come over: we can bond over beer and flame-grilled chicken.