In college, my friends diagnosed me with a syndrome they dubbed “the rage”. The rage is something I have suffered from almost my whole life, an affliction that shakes those in my path.
It works something like this: I cannot find something or I royally screw something up or I am trapped in a situation. Suddenly, a switch will flip and I go from 0 to 60 in about 2.2 seconds, shouting profanities and pacing back and forth. Sometimes, there is slamming of doors and my (wimpy) fist on a hard surface. I have become fairly adept at keeping it together in my later years–silently stewing inside while the rage threatens to bubble out–but those who know me can see I am about to boil over. A lot of times it involves me rummaging on my floor screaming “Where are my f’ing black stilettos?”as I violently launch things around the room in my quest for the missing footwear. Some instances of rage that are particularly memorable: writing a paper on the WRONG WAR in my American Studies class freshman year, the washer/dryer eating my money at my apartment complex halfway through a load, and a Puerto Rican accordion troupe pushing me to the brink at a San Juan airport. I look utterly ridiculous when this happens, but I can barely control it. Many laughs are stifled by friends and family.
The rage has gotten better as I have matured and it is rarely focused on anyone but myself. I just get pissed when I screw myself over. That being said, if someone has witnessed a rageful scenario, it is reasonable they may fear they will come in my scopes some day. So, when I returned from the gym Monday night to see Annie Birdie waiting for me nervously, with hesitation, I knew something was up.
Before leaving for the gym, I asked her to pull my chicken breasts out of the oven when the buzzer beeped. She somehow got distracted by her phone–I’d like to think discussing a solution to world hunger with the President because what is more important than my chicken–and never heard the oven beep. So, when I came home I was confronted with some very well done chicken. It had shrunk to half it’s size, was a nasty brown color and possessed a weird, crispy, hardened layer. She was thoroughly apologetic, but she learned a vital lesson about me: I will always be more angry with myself than someone else. I actually wasn’t much pissed at all, just a little out of sorts because my plan for the evening was foiled.
Any minor annoyance I may have felt was smoothed over with many “hot nuts” jokes when I threw together this curry chicken salad. Like most of my recipes, this is heavily open to individual interpretation. I just grabbed some stuff at the store and threw in a bunch of things hanging in the pantry. Some other ingredients that could be substituted/added are almonds, diced peppers, crasins, celery, scallions, pears, dried cherries, etc… These measurements are all estimates, easily tinkered to suit individual taste. Poaching the chicken–something that occurred to me after the great Annie Birdie Disaster of 2007–makes a huge difference as it keeps the chicken extremely moist. The curry is the real key–it adds punch and a welcome change of pace.
Just keep one eye on the stove while making this…
Curry Chicken Salad
A Lemmonex Original
5 chicken tenders or 2 breasts
2 cups water (I used 1/2 water 1/2 chicken broth to preserve some flavor)
3 Tablespoons walnuts
1 granny smith apple
3 Tablespoons raisins
2 Tablespoons currants
2 Tablespoons onions, finely diced
1 Tablespoon curry powder
2 1/2 Tablespoons fat free mayo
Salt and pepper
Poach chicken in salted water (or broth/water combo) until cooked (about 8 minutes with the tenders). As chicken poaches, toast nuts and chop when cooled. Dice apples and onions. In bowl, mix nuts, onions, apples, currants, and raisins. When chicken cools, add chop and add the nut/apple mixture. Add mayo, curry, salt and pepper and mix.