There’s just something special about meat on the bone. It’s primal. When I eat it I feel like the top of the food chain. I feel like a hunter, when most of the time it’s Colonel Sanders doing the real work. I’ve only been hunting once. I fell out of a tree stand. I don’t think the sport is for me. I’ll stick to food for getting the caveman juices flowing.

Making Pan-Roasted Chicken Parts (Page 365) with Micro-Steamed Asparagus (Page 242) was about more than just pan-roasting a chicken. That would be too easy. This is America. You’ve got to work for your food and make all those Republican Presidential Nominees proud. Since the only hunting I know how to do is for my keys in the morning, I had to get up close and personal with my bird in a different way.

I’m talking butchery. I’m about to get all Michael Myers on this poor little five-pound bird and chop it into little tiny pieces. Eight of them to be exact.

I started by popping the leg and thigh out of their socket. I was expecting to be slicing and dicing, not performing fowl physical therapy. Luckily the next step was more my speed, lopping off the dark meat bits with my handy dandy assault weapon.

If this was a slasher film it would be a boring one. Not Friday the 13^th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan boring, but close. I’m not really chopping the legs off as much as I am grinding the chicken into submission. Maybe if I pull at the legs they will just pop off like Mr. Potato Head.

After the most disappointing dismemberment scene since the latest Eli Roth movie, the meat chunks kind of look like legs and thighs, so it’s on to breasts. I needed to separate the breasts from the back, then separate the breasts from each other, then slice the breasts in half. If anyone Google searches “breasts”, I’m really hoping this post shows up and they are wildly disappointed.

The back separates surprisingly easily. What the hell do I with a chicken back? The Food Lab says to make stock. I say that’s more work than I’m willing to put into this right now. I give up and throw it in the freezer, where it will be forgotten.

Did you know they throw in extra parts for free when you buy a whole chicken? I think I found a liver, kidney and a heart. I never found any lungs. This chicken must have had a really shit mile time in high school.

I am all that is man. I have butchered my bird. It took the better part of half an hour, but I did it. With my bloodbath complete I was left with 13 vaguely chicken-shaped pieces. I somehow made five extra and I don’t know how. I decide that this is a good thing, because more chicken is always better.

Now it’s time for the chicken to go for a seaside holiday, in a process called brining. Brining sounds fancy, but apparently all it takes is soaking the chicken in salt water. This I can do. Waiting 45 minutes? This I cannot.

I filled the time by watching Frasier. I still haven’t watched Making a Murder, Better Caul Saul, or The Walking Dead, but I’ve watched six seasons of a 20-year old network single-camera sitcom. Maybe I’ll catch up on Night Court next. No spoilers please.

It’s finally time to cook. I throw the first piece in skin side down and quickly realize, this pan is too small. Other than this small issue and an equally small grease fire everything goes surprisingly well. I flip the chunks when brown and throw them in the oven with a thermometer. Now comes my favorite part, more Frasier.

Why am I doing this? It’s 2016. Watch House of Cards or something.

After 22 minutes of watching Niles and Daphne making eyes at each other, the chicken comes out of the oven. I grab the thermometer that’s been inside the bird for half an hour, burn my fingers off and drop the thermometer on the floor. I immediately pick it up with my other hand and burn those fingers off too. Finally, I wise up and grab it with my sleeves like I’m wiping off finger prints at a crime scene.

The second chicken batch is ready for the oven. Instinctively, I grab the thermometer and burn my hands off for the third time. I have no brain cells left to lose so I bang my head angrily on the countertop.

Luckily making Micro-Steamed Asparagus takes no cognitive thinking. It barely requires hands. You place the asparagus on a microwave safe plate, cover it with damp paper towels and microwave it. That’s it. I don’t know why or how this book dedicated four pages to this process, but they did. This recipe doesn’t belong in The Food Lab. It belongs here.

After preparing my microwave vegetables I took this picture.

I don’t know what that growth is, but I’m starving and don’t care. I immediately added two more chicken chunks on the plate, because it’s almost bedtime and dammit daddy’s hungry.

It’s great. The chicken is crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside. All the recipe took was chicken, the basic bitch of food, salt and pepper. That was it. The asparagus tastes like microwaved asparagus, and it’s shockingly good. There’s only one thing left to answer. What show will I watch while I enjoy this masterpiece?

Smart money is on Frasier.

Recipe: 23/23

Did I do the dishes? Yes.