Do you ever get that thing where, just as you've done something you really shouldn't do, a little mental flash will take place telling you you've just done something you really shouldn't have, and always once it's too late. Like tell a friend yes it is okay to put bubble bath in a Jacuzzi. Or...
By some error at the butchers we ended up with a stray chicken breast, which has been merrily solidified in the ice compartment of our Frigidair until today when I had to fend for myself, what with Ian off at a family tandoori. I decided to "be creative" with the lone chicken tit, and so thoroughly thawed it, and fried it in some heavily peppered oil. And as it sizzled away I thought to myself, "what's nicer than peppered chicken? Why, lemon pepper chicken of course!" So off I went back to the Frigidair where I retrieved a bottle of Jif Lemon Juice. And as I stood over the sizzling, pepper strewn corn oil I thought not a jot about the consequences of introducing an acid fruit juice to the mix. Only after the third stroke of the bottle did, all of a sudden, a mental image of Neil Morrisey pop into my head...
"Here's a tip for the lads. If you add lemon juice to hot oil, it makes it go on fire. It's a great way to impress the chicks. Wanna buy a shed?"
And lo did my eyes widen. And lo did the pan go on fire. As I quietly shat myself, and Englishly worried at how embarrassed I would be around the landlady should the house burn down, I withdrew the flaming pan from the heat and shook it a bit, like they do on the telly. And miraculously the fire subsided, no doubt as a result of the lemon juice burning itself out, rather than my Antony Worrall Thompson shamblings. Smoked out the kitchen, but so lightly that it failed to set off the smoke alarm.
A lesson learned. And it tasted good, too. But not of lemons.
