beware: previously uncharted territory ahead

I've sometimes joked to people that I didn't really grow up until I moved to asia. I would say that is generally true (especially since I came just after graduating from college), but in no area is that more true than in the kitchen. Now, I'm not like a Michelin 5-star or diamond or whatever kind of chef, but I think we usually eat pretty good around here. I've even found that a little confidence in the kitchen works wonders on your willingness to host people - I used to dread what I would make if company came over, but now I enjoy planning things that people will enjoy and that I know I can make.

Since moving to asia-land, I have successfully mastered lots of things: macaroni and cheese, chicken fingers (you've gotta have kid-friendly fare), fried potatoes,tasty casseroles and hearty stews, homemade breads and rolls, pineapple upside down cake, homemade brownies, shortcakes, muffins, and many varieties of chocolate indulgences that make eating so much fun.

But there has always been one entree strangely missing from my cookbooks...

...the elusive chicken fried steak, the bread-and-butter of all good southerners everywhere.

I think the reason is that ever since I was a kid, my dad made the best chicken fried steak ever, so I was always intimidated by the sight of him pounding, breading, frying, pounding, breading, frying. I told myself it was too hard, it was a guilty pleasure for me to enjoy when at his house - certainly not something I could eat on my own.

But last weekend, I tried it. My trusty source at homesicktexan.blogspot.com inspired me (even though she may be from texas) and I gave it a shot. I was shocked at the results.

I finally began my quest for yummy CFS after locating a meat mallet at an obscure restaurant supply store in an impossible-to-find alley in one of the most crowded districts in our city. That night, I pounded my meat - as instructed - until doubled in size. I prepared my egg mixture and my breading mixture, then used the recommended dredge - drench - dredge (dry-wet-dry) procedure to get every last possible ounce of breading to stay on. Then I watched it bubble into a beautiful warmish brown color in the skillet, and silently prayed that my freakish habit of overcooking meat because of the fear of it not being done wouldn't take over. I carefully lifted my crunchy looking steaks out of the skillet and left them to warm in the oven while I finished the mashed potatoes and mac-and-cheese (yes, I very starchy meal, I know!) Beautiful. They were beautiful. And I made them. It was almost surreal.

Not that the process was as calm as I describe to you now - no, in fact, it was nothing like that. The gravy was almost a total disaster (though, in the end, it worked out ok) and it was certainly not a brilliant idea to try to make the gravy whilst simultaneously beating mashed potatoes, whisking cheese and milk together for the mac&cheese, and trying to seperate out all the utensils that had touched any part of the raw meat (another product of our freaskish meat habits). Further complicating the effort was the fact that my blender cord kept falling into the sink filled with water. My kitchen felt like a disaster zone; adding to the tension was the fact that I sent josh to the store in the middle of my gravy whisking because I had to counteract the fact that I was mindlessly spooning flour into the saucepan and then subsequently needed much more milk than was available in my fridge. Here's a picture that might give you a sense of the drama that was happening in my kitchen, though it doesn't quite accurately capture my frenzy:

Anyway, the kitchen drama died down, and then I was able to pull out my lovely steaks from the oven, where they were nicely sunning, oblivious to my frenetic movements just outside. When I sat them on the table, josh too, was stunned. I think he had secretly planned a back-up dinner at mcdonalds when I told him I was trying CFS for the first time.

One bite, and we were hooked. Sure, the gravy was a tad too thick, and the steaks a hare on the salty side. But I had no idea it was so easy. I vaguley remember my dad telling me "it's so easy," and me ignoring his comment in typical teenager fashion, but it was true - it was so easy! I'm sure I still have many years of tweaking my own recipe before I am anywhere near chef randy caliber, but the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step...or something like that, right?