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What a crazy busy wonderful last coupla days. If there’s ever been a 48-hour period where I’ve bitten off more than I could chew but still managed to swallow it all without choking, this was it. It all started Friday night coming home from work with an intensive trip to the market to procure all the ingredients for the Coca-Cola-Brined Fried Chicken recipe (that I wrote about here) I’d been salivating over since reading about it in the current issue of Esquire magazine.

I’d been thinking of cooking it for Sunday, but a late-breaking freelance edit/rewrite gig wasn’t going to allow that so I decided instead of just Susan and me I’d whip up a batch for us and however many cycling pals returned with us from The Village Idiot Ride (that I wrote about here). Keep in mind, I’ve never done much of anything from scratch. Also keep in mind I’ve never fried chicken or cooked for a group. As such I even had hamburger patties and brats onhand as a contingency if my culinary endeavor failed miserably — which it almost did, but more on that later.

So by 8 a.m. Saturday morning in preparation for the arrival of my friend Steve and Alice and Manny and Ingrid and everyone else who might be biking with us over to the restaurant on Melrose,  I had beers on ice in the cooler and was getting the outside and inside of the house in order and cleaned up, first tackling the front and back yards and then the weeks-overdue vacuuming and dusting of the first floor while Susan did the same upstairs.

We managed to finish all that in time for me to get down to the business of mixing the brining mixture and the batter mix and the relish, and getting the chicken marinating in time for me to get cleaned up and ready for everyone to arrive. And by everyone I mean all these cool cats who paused long enough for an awesome group picture in front of the house by Susan before we set out for the crosstown ride (click it to enlarge):

Left to right, top to bottom:
Barleye, Alice, Steve, Ingrid, Harry
Lance, Esther*, Daniel*, Dak, Stephanie, Jeff
Roadblock, John, Some Guy, Manny
*Thanks to Steve for filling in the blanx I was having with these names!

While Susan and I are generally nice people, we’re not the most social of animals and thus haven’t had this many people at the house since our wedding reception back in ‘05 — and certainly never so many cycling pals!

So off we rode to The Village Idiot restaurant, where owner and my next-door neighbor Dean greeted us, and Steve and his “guardian angel” in the form of the restaurant’s barkeep Simon got a chance to reunite under far happier circumstances (click it to enlarge):

After leaving the restaurant, a majority percentage — including late arrival Marino (who showed up while we were at the restaurant) returned home with me. In addition Manny stopped off to bring his wife Cybele over, and I commenced to almost fail in my attempt to complete the relatively simple task of thoroughly cooking some battered chicken thighs in hot oil.

Instead as it turned out, I only half-cooked most of them. Fortunately Marino cut his in half and showed me the trouble before anyone could ingest the undercooked meat and Cybele came up with the plan to recover the distributed food and toss them in the oven for a spell.

Thus they emerged from the O’Keefe & Merritt cooked through now as Coca-Cola-Brined Fried Baked Chicken, and it was generally well received. Sure I was disheartened, but would have been decidedly moreso had anyone taken ill because of my failure. And if it’s any consolation, on Sunday Susan took the leftover batter and extra package of thighs and did them up right. Here are the thumbnails of  a photoset of the overall recipe-in-progress  (viewable here on Flickr):

Sunday was a horse of an entire different color. Whereas I was all over the place Saturday cleaning and riding and socializing and cooking (or attempting to), the seventh day found me in front of my computer from 8:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. (with only a few short breaks and a sole one-hour retreat in the mid-afternoon) trudging through a late-breaking editing/rewrite gig. But I wasn’t complaining (at least not about the job as much as about the article’s condition) because even though it effectively removed me from enjoying the last day of the weekend, it paid me for my freelance services as an editorial cleaner almost as much as what I take home for two weeks at the office.

Let’s just say it’d buy a lot of chicken. And some lessons on how to cook it.

I don’t do a lot of meal making in the kitchen that involves preparations beyond seasoning something and putting it to some manner of heat. I think the most complicated thing I’ve ever made is cookies or cakes. Or daiquiris the way Hemingway drank ‘em in Cuba.

This weekend though, thanks to a unique and intriguing dish from chef John Currence — involving two of my favorite if seemingly incongruous things: Coca-Cola and chicken — found in the “How Men Eat” feature of the current issue of Esquire magazine (oddly enough I couldn’t find it at esquire.com, but here reprinted at nola.com instead), I’m going to actually wander the aisles of markets buying a variety of ingredients that will then involve measuring, mixing, whisking, blending, marinating, dipping, heating, turning, chopping and garnishing in hopes of turning the following recipe into my attempt at what Currence called the best fried chicken he’s ever had. Y’all stay tuned now.

John Currence’s Coca-Cola-Brined Fried Chicken

12 chicken thighs (skin on)
Peanut oil and lard, for frying

BRINING MIX
1 quart Coca Cola
1 teaspoon Liiquid Smoke (optional)
2 1/2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
1 tablespoon Tabasco
3 tablespoons ground black pepper
3 tablespoons coarse salt

BATTER
1 egg
3/4 cup peanut oil

DRY MIX (well combined)
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 tablespoons coarse salt
4 teaspoons ground black pepper
1 tablespoon cayenne
1 tablespoon onion powder
1 tablespoon garlic powder
2 1/2 cups flour

To brine: Rinse chicken, drain, and set aside. Blend together brining mix until salt dissolves. Place chicken in brine in a large covered bowl and marinate, refrigerated, for 4 hours.

To batter: Whisk egg well in a stainless steel bowl and add peanut oil and 2 1/2 cups water. Add in dry mix, whisking slowly so batter doesn’t clump.

To prepare chicken: Fill a large cast-iron skillet halfway with equal amounts peanut oil and lard. Slowly bring temperature to 375 degrees. (Use a candy thermometer.)

While oil is heating, remove chicken from brine and place in a colander in sink. Once chicken has drained, pat dry with paper towels (a critical step) and season with salt and pepper.

Dip chicken in batter and place (carefully) in hot oil. Adjust heat, as the chicken will bring down the oil temperature dramatically — you want it back up to just above 350 degrees. Turn chicken regularly, using tongs, to prevent burning.

After 8 or 9 minutes, remove a piece, prick it to the bone with a fork, and mash it. If the juices run clear, it’s done. Continue cooking if necessary.

Serve with Pickle-Garlic Relish (below). Cover any leftovers with a dish towel and leave out at room temperature (or in the fridge, if you must, although my grandmother never did). This keeps it crispy.

PICKLE-GARLIC RELISH
1 cup flat-leaf parsley
1 cup hamburger dill pickle chips
3 tablespoons chopped garlic
Chop everything finely and combine. Add a little pickle juice, if desired. Refrigerate.

Thanks to Shadow’s extended (and long-overdue) visit to the dog groomer yesterday, she now looks great but I ended up being about an hour late to the Hot Dog Death March (HDDM) festivities that began at Pink’s on La Brea. Fortunately I arrived in the nick of time to enter my  submission in the Hot Dog Haiku contest, which went on to win a runner-up award and  went a little sumpthin’ like dis:

Hebrew National
Answers to a higher source
“God” is “dog” backwards

The lateness of my arrival and the perpetually preposterous line at Pink’s precluded my patronage, but I ended up giving in to the temptations of Oki-Dog’s namesake menu item, followed up with an order of tasty Skooby fries and a glass of some of the best lemonade in the world. This on top of my visit with Susan to Blue Star Restauarant for an encore of their Shield’s Dateburger left me in no need for dinner.

And I wasn’t the only one to bike the march! My friend and fellow Great L.A. walker Joni, traversed the route on two wheels, as did a fellow from downtown coincidentally named William. Thanks to Joni getting us together in front of Scooby’s on Hollywood Boulevard for a snapshot, here we are below with my fellow L.A. Metbloggers and HDDM organizers extraordinaire Julia and Lucinda Michele (from left: William, Julia, Lucinda Michele, me (wearing my haiku prize), and Joni):

An awesome great time and hotdogs were had by all!

Here’s my photoset on Flickr.

Why is it such a really  good idea as breakfast on Christmas Day at one of my favorite never-closed places in LA is an idea that never occurred to me until now.

Oversights like that frustrate me to no end, but I guess it’s better late than never to start an annual Breakfast At The Pantry tradition, which we kicked off with my mom, who came over for Christmas Eve and then spent the night trying not to freeze while asleep on our couch.

Coincidental bonus points for our server’s name being Jesus — who we left a 50% tip because anyone forced to forsake their own lives and those of friends and family on this day to instead serve strangers deserves nothing less!

Merry Christmas!

Some have the strength to admit theirs. In my case I don’t have the filter to keep mine quiet… at least not this one.

Yesterday it was Twizzlers, though it was not a craving that came out of nowhere. A couple previous weeks ago I’d snacked on some and since then I’ve inexplicably and irrationally wanted more. Not continuously… just now and then my brain would think TWIZZLERS followed by MUSTHAVEWANTNOW!

I fought it for awhile, but the urge arose and overcame me on my ride in to work yesterday morning and I stopped at the CVS closest to the office where I soon found myself in a debate of simple comparative values. A five-ounce package was $1.59, but I knew one wouldn’t be enough, so I picked up two and was about to leave when I saw that a two-pound jumbo package was only $2.69.

You don’t have to be a math whiz to figure out that 10 ounces for $3.19 just doesn’t make any sense when 32 ounces of the same product are 50 cents less.

Of course, I’d just have a handful and then put the remainder in the break room for my coworkers because there was no way I’d nom-nom two freaking pounds of all that artifically flavored crap in one day, right?

Oh soooooo wrong. So sadly wrong.

It was like a flash addiction from the minute I opened the bag and the waxy freshness wafted out. I ate two. Then two more. Then two more. Then two more after that. By noon, more than half the bag was gone and I was feeling as guilty as I was ill, and managed to stop.

For awhile.

Then at 5 p.m. I snuck a peak at the bad inside the drawer I put it in. And then came the moment of surrender. That “Well, I might as well…” rationalization, in which finishing off the bag and ending the torment was better than leaving it to taunt.

And so I did.

I Killed that bag.

All two pounds of whatever it is that Twizzlers are made of: Red dye. Rubberbands. Plastic. Sugar. Wax. Motor oil. Self-Loathing. Modeling clay. Hand sanitizer. Elmer’s Glue. Horse hooves. Coltan. Baby tears. Liquid Paper. Newt Gingrich. Unrequited love. Bath water. Nuclear fallout.

And all of it sat in my stomach and my stomach was like “WTF!?!! I’m gonna have to let this sit here awhile until I can get a jackhammer and some Liquid Plumber to break this mess down. Just you wait until your colon finds out about this.”

Needless to say the bike ride home, pregnant with the stuff, was a unique experience.

And really needless to say: I fear when my colon does find out it’ll stamp it “Return To Sender.”

I’ve been wanting for awhile to get a vid of this morning routine of Pepper and Jig’s:

I can imagine something akin to Abbott & Costello’s “Who’s On First” sketch when telling someone where we went for breakfast this morning.

“What’s it’s name?”

“It’s Local.”

“Right. But what’s it called?”

“The Local place?”

“Yes!”

“It’s Local.”

“Gah!”

Previously the Eastside Mercantile shop, Susan and I have been anticipating Local’s opening for weeks, and while I can definitely say we’re happy to have a new eatery in our immediate vicinity, I can’t say we’ll happily return for anything more than just coffees and a shared somethin’.

The meals we had were great, the staff very friendly, the decor nice and ambiance wonderful (except for the place feeling the need to sounddrown a subtle Sunday morning with unnecessary and too loud music), but the place is pricey. I had the braised pork belly, two eggs and home fries ($13), Susan had some fancy-named sausage, two eggs, and home fries ($13). Beverages brought the total up over the $40 mark.

For breakfast? Yeesh! And the rest of the offerings aren’t much cheaper. A bareback Belgian waffle is $7. French toast is $9 — $11 if you want yours with fruit and yogurt.

Fortunate the bonus floorshow — in the form of the bicycling portion of the L.A. Triathalon was free, and as Susan and I enjoyed our first and what may be our last meal at Local, we also had fun watching cyclists of all shapes, sizes and rides zip along a traffic-free, bikes only Sunset Boulevard.

Click here to see the best footage yet of Buster the Russian tortoise going full nom on her foodstuffs!

I didn’t get a picture of the first ripened tomato our backyard garden produced to perfection a couple days ago, but on the kitchen window sill last night I found our second that Susan had harvested that afternoon and so snapped it this a.m.:

It’s about the size of a golf ball and a half. Many more to come, which rhymes with yum!