smitten kitchen

If it’s true that the definition of stupidity is to do something over and over again and expect different results, then I am indeed guilty as charged, because I made something for dinner last night that I know I never, ever like. Somehow I believed it would be better this time, and when it wasn’t, I proceeded to take two bites and then returned to the kitchen to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

It seems unfair to blame the margarita chicken, as Alex ate it without complaint, but he’s always been the kind of boy who knows on which side his bread is buttered. Frankly, not only do I not blame the margarita chicken, I was downright jealous of it for getting to marinate for 24 hours in a freshly-squeeze, potent cocktail while I marinated in front of a flat screen monitor, shivering in an over air-conditioned low-walled cube. But in the end, I just can’t give an objective review of the recipe because guess what? I don’t like grilled, boneless skinless chicken cutlets and I never have.

Continued after the jump »

Look, I understand that it’s too in the day early to start talking about mothers. And, at the age of 30, when I say mother, what I really mean is “me, sooner than later” so it sounds a particularly ill-chosen term, not to mention that my mother is a wonderful cook, as is my husband’s mother as was her mother and what I really actually mean is “this is not your (fill in the blank) deli’s/lunch room’s typical, watery/soggy/oily/white/mysterious two-ounce Solo container of forgettable and soon-to-be-chucked coleslaw.” But that makes for a terrifically bad headline.

Like most of us, I’ve never been a fan of coleslaw, as nearly every one I had ever tried was god-awful. I thought it was because I didn’t like cabbage, but this has turned out not to be the case. Then I thought it was because I didn’t like mayonnaise, but this, too, turned out to be a farce. (An aside: have you ever made mayo? It’s really easy! We should totally do it some time.) As it turned out, it was coleslaw, the way it is typically prepared (read: scooped from bucket of mysterious origin and packing date), that I loathed. Ding, ding, ding; we have winner!

Continued after the jump »