This week Ben wanted to put a twist on his familiar chicken parm by making chicken parm sandwiches. Since he had 4 consecutive cheesesteak meals last weekend (not including breakfast – that’s what burritos are for), I figured a couple poultry-based meals wouldn’t be the worst thing.
Ben knows the making of chicken parm like a mother knows her infant’s cry, so why not have him lead the way and teach Phil how to make it? I figured this would give me a chance to witness and record the process.
Ben started by getting out about half the ingredients needed along with a sad little bag of languishing cilantro that had no place in our dinner theater. The rest of the stage is set as if Phil was deliberately trying to confuse investigators should forensics need to be called in for a dinner post mortem. Sir, I note the cut red pepper halves on the table, yet chicken parm does not call for red peppers. Care to explain the presence of two recipes, neither of which is for chicken parm? Why does your chicken dangle precariously on the edge of the table? Were you planning, perhaps, that it should meet with an unfortunate accident? Are you aware, sir, that glasses work better when you wear them?
Let the record reflect that this kitchen is under new management.
Once we got the dredging stations set up, Ben was in his element.
Teach, Ben, teach.
Ben, like every good teacher, knows that teaching is part drama. How did he leave them wanting more the last time he served as acolyte? Instead of making a small, reverent bow towards the altar, he turned to the congregation, arms raised like Simone Biles after nailing her floor routine, and made a sweeping dramatic bow. I will leave it to other teachers (Father Ken, you’re up) to correct his moves there.
My job is to let Ben and his chicken parm shine, as he pounds that mallet to his own beat.
