Gentle reader, I’m not gonna lie: I have not been employed full-time for some time. (What, how did you think I made time to suddenly and vociferously resurrect this blog?) And while I was extremely, extraordinarily grateful to have scored a week’s in-house freelance assignment in Manhattan, I was unprepared to be thrown back into the cowpen of personal-space violation that is the C-train morning commute. (Pro tip: Ladies of the C train, if you have ever lamented aloud to your significant other that you’d like to spoon more often, BE MORE SPECIFIC about whom you'd like to spoon with, because if you don’t, all I have to say is, BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR.) Mind you, this was morning time I would ordinarily spend Instagramming my breakfast while watching "In the Papers" on NY1, then observing the progress of Jamie Shupak's baby bump, then wondering just how drunk everyone on the Today show is, then maybe throwing some stuff in the slow cooker, then maybe going back to bed until like 11. Okay, fine, noon.
Anyhoo. I determined to still make at least a couple of weeknight dinners in the course of the week, even though I would probably not be able to get home before 7PM, given the bashful C train's tendency to wait for FOUR FREAKING A TRAINS TO GO BY before it works up the courage to pull up into the station.
But oh right, the slow cooker—that part of my morning ritual could actually carry over! This, I realized, would be a good opportunity to continue evolving my slow-cooking skills, which I will definitely need to rely heavily on if I am ever again gainfully employed full-time. I resolved to purchase a jar of premade Indian sauce, slather it on a chicken, and call it a day before starting my day. I figured, hey, if the semi-homemade approach is good enough for the plucky unofficial First Lady of New York, Sandra Lee, it’s good enough for me.
I also thought that leftover chicken could be used for lunches, because another traumatic memory that came rushing back this week was HOW FREAKING MUCH A MEASLY SOGGY SANDWICH COSTS IN MANHATTAN! (Don’t get me started on what happens if you want a salad. Let’s just say it’s a good thing that I never want a salad.)
So I bought a whole chicken (3.5 lb) and put it in a Ziploc bag. I sliced half of a big yellow onion, stuffed as many slices as would fit into the chicken cavity, and sprinkled the rest around the bird. Then I added a 16-oz. jar of premade korma sauce (it’s an Indian curryish thing, fellow ignorant Americans), and tossed in a splash of beer and the contents of a small plastic container of ketchup that came with the French fries and onion rings we ordered at the Chinese-Mexican takeout place last night, because America.
After letting this unholy mix set up in the fridge overnight (and praying that I could overcome my biorythmical aversion to early-morning food preparation), I woke up, dumped its contents into the slow cooker (legs up), turned it on low heat, and set off to be a temporarily productive member of society. The goal was to cook it for 8 to 10 hours, which seems to be the end game of every slow-cooker recipe, in my admittedly limited experience.
I plated the chicken over rice from the Chinese-Mexican takeout spot, because semi-homemade, and also America. (My man does not like rice, so I served his in a large flour tortilla leftover from my $10 lunch at Chipotle, because semi-homemade, and also America.) I sprinkled some parsley leaves over it for a little color. The chicken and onions were quite delicious and the meat was very shreddy and moist. Success! Your move, Sandra.