Leather Fried Steak

Chicken fried steak: one of life's little pleasures. Unless I am the cook. Allow me to explain.

Flint's been a little melancholy these days. Life does that to one sometimes. So I decided to cook him dinner. Keep in mind, cupcakes, that I am not a horrible cook. I have a few recipes perfected already, in my young age. Pastitsio, spinach-mushroom burritos, and the best mother fuckin burgers you could ever hope to eat come to mind. Anyway. I decide to cook Flint a cheer-up dinner. Anything you want I say. Curry he requests. Anything but curry I reply. OK, chicken fried steak he says. OK I say.

I have made a delicious chicken fried steak in my past, and I have no qualms about doing so again. Just for fun, I call AG for a little advice since he has recently made a spectacular chicken fried chicken dinner. The secret ingredient? Bread crumbs. Not flour. Ok. I can do that.

So I amass the ingredients. I clean the kitchen up a little. I crack a Stella. This'll be fun!

While the potatoes boil, I nuke the requested baby carrots. I begin the egg/bread crumb dip preparations. I heat a generous amount of oil in my non-stick skillet. I have another Stella. I smoke a cigarette with Flint (cigarettes are another story).

I mash the potatoes, leaving some of the skins on for a little texture, and add a sauteed onion after demonstrating my flipping ability to Flint. Yummy. Then I grate black pepper on top, using my special wedding present pepper grinder from France. I looks like a pear. The pepper grinder breaks. That should have been my first clue.

I then decide not to get too down on the pepper grinder and turn my attention to the steak. I open another Stella. I dip the little steaks in egg, then in bread crumbs, then see that there's still egg leftover, so I do a second dip of both. I pop the little darlings into the oil, and congratulate myself on my domestic prowess.

I flip the little darlings. They are browned perfectly, or so it seems to me. I am pleased. I wait a few minutes, then remove them and drain them on paper napkins since they are dripping with organic canola oil.

I then create a gravy. Since the bread crumbs were seasoned, I decide to use them instead of flour. It looks good, I think. I do not try it.

I nuke the baby carrots again. I open another Stella, have a final cigarette, and being the plate assembly.

The plates look great. Colorful, for sure.

I serve Flint, then bring my plate down and settle in front of the TV. This'll cheer Flint up! I think to myself. I secretly congratulate myself again.

I can't be sure of the precise moment when I knew everything was not so perfect as I thought. I think it was when Flint bashfully asked for a knife. Sure I say. Upon knife delivery, I try the baby carrots. Hmm. Pretty good. Pretty crunchy. Way crunchy, in fact. Raw, actually. Crap.

I catch a glimpse of Flint looking, perplexed, at his plate. I turn my fork in the direction of the mashed potatoes. They are good. The gravy seems strange. Textured. Oh god. It's the bread crumbs. Well, at least the potatoes are good.

I try the steak. My fork cannot penetrate the inner flesh of this cow who so graciously laid down its life to cheer up Flint. I decide to spear the steak and eat it like a caramel apple. This proves unsuccessful, as I have not razor blades and a blender, but teeth and a tongue. I decide to eat the crust off. Unfortunately, it has a lot of the weird gravy on it. Flint doesn't know what to do.

I suggest pizza. Flint eats some cake.