Tonight, I decided to go ahead and make a recipe that I read about on one of my favorite food blogs: chicken liver ragu. Things got off to a rocky start when I had to visit three different grocery stores to obtain the aforementioned livers, but once I decide to do something I really just like to plough ahead in spite of whatever red flags a benevolent universe plants in my path. I guess now is probably the time to mention that I don’t really like liver all that much, that I’ve had a similar dish at a great restaurant and only sort of liked it, and that I have a weird, prissy aversion to dealing with raw meatLALALALALALA can’t hear you, voice in the back of my mind, this is a great idea, just look at that nice picture.
Problem the first: did you know chicken livers come frozen in a little tub and that they will be impossible to defrost in anything resembling a reasonable amount of time? At this point, I had cut up all my vegetables, and it was too late to turn back, so I went ahead and destroyed some chicken livers, ripping them apart like a kitchen-dwelling godzilla, covering so, so many things in chicken blood. Then I proceeded to trim them and finely chop them. Just kidding, because if you’ve ever dealt with raw liver, you know it’s basically like trying to finely chop jello.
Problem the second: why is there so much blood in livers? I mean, they are like all blood. Just bloody bloody blood, all on my hands, drying into a sticky, shiny horror show. My clothes splattered in chicken blood. At this point, I begin to feel like I’m in one of those American Horror Story voodoo rituals (an aside: Angela Bassett, I love you, where have you been?).
Problem the third: the ragu is finished, and it’s delicious, but it tastes like liver, but it’s delicious, but it tastes like liver. Like 63% of my brain is totally sold on the ragu, but also 32% of my brain is like:
5% of my brain wishes I were asleep already. That is always the case.