You guys. Currenty these fine-ass skinless roasted chicken thighs are happily chewed and sitting heavy in my stomach- but not TOO heavy, which is one of the many glories of roasted chicken. It’s hard to stuff yourself silly off it even when it’s a million degrees of tasty and served up with a garlic mash and gravy. But not any gravy… JIM BEAM gravy that C enthusiastically lit on fire, then doused with the chicken marinade (heavy on the oregano, basil, and thyme), sprinkled with flour and cornstarch and let thicken. He seared it off in the cast iron while I finished up the mash (“more heavy cream, more butter!” I always say), and dumped a 1/4 cup or so of sauteed garlic in olive oil and butter in the mash pot to make it approximately 1000% tastier.
So I have a thing that I think a lot of ladies have, where I’m like, “IT IS NOT THE FOURTH OF JULY, STOP LIGHTING SHIT ON FIRE- IT’S NOT THAT FUN, OK GUYS!?” I’m guessing this stems from a fear of skin grafts and/or losing an eyebrow. Well here’s a fun fact: when your man lights gravy on fire (to better caramelize the sugars!) instead of random objects in your backyard, not only is not annoying anymore, it’s completely swoon-worthy. What can I say? I’m a lucky gal.