My friend Hathanh — Hatty, if you will — and I are more than obsessed with food. Sometimes I think the only reason she's dating that handsome, handsome baker is for the croissants. She texted me the photo to your right, informing me she'd just made what she was calling "Jess Kapadia Thighs." I was like, "neato!" We're clearly also obsessed with each other. It's a girl bromance for the ages.
This chick once wrote a 5-page story entitled "Don't Ask Me To Say Vague Things About Coffee," in which a feral kitten (fine, my feral kitten I found on the mean streets of LA) graphically murders and consumes a scary off-limits basement full of those little eye-popping martian stress toys, then suffers a tragic bout of carsickness somewhere outside of Calabasas, right on the author's foot. Most of that story is true. Now about my thighs.
"Soooo about your thighs…in a nutshell, I threw your boneless, skinless thighs (not weird) into a Ziploc with a half-cup of whole milk yogurt into which I had whisked, smiling maniacally all the while, the following items: a heaping tablesplooge of tandoori masala (that I picked up in Bombay while on a quick getaway with a good friend, NBD) about a teaspoon of smoked paprika, a generous teaspoon of chile flakes, 5-6 smashed cloves of garlic and quite a bit of salt. I wish I could be more specific about the salt, but it's sometimes hard to eyeball with the robot grinder we have. I would say '5.5 seconds' worth.' And then I let that sit in the fridge like the bad Ziploc of your thighs it was.
"The next evening, I removed your thighs from the Ziploc and lightly coated them in a little flour, breadcrumbs, and finely chopped parsley. I heated up an inch of vegetable oil in the bottom of my sexy orange Dutch oven, then placed your thighs in for about 3 minutes each side. I then removed them to a baking rack placed on a sheet pan, upon which I baked them for 30 minutes.
"When your thighs came out all nice and juicy and brown, I drizzled them with lemon juice and ate them on rice. This concludes my vaguely erotic retelling of the time I made your thighs."
I was basically speechless by the end, overwhelmed with love and friendship, like so many bronies. In return, I'm going to make Hatty Buns and pen a long story about the evil robotic salt grinder that mauls everyone in her Pop Physique class, then flees to Guam where it marries a native albeit analog pepper grinder. Where's that Vietnamese pastry book?
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