The Parm

Because we were forced to boycott our favorite local place that usually cooks for us, we had no choice but to take matters into our own hands on Saturday night . . .

. . .  that's right. Mistah and I. Saturday night. Chicken Parm, baby.

Bring it.

First step, bread crumbs. Made out of the bread from our local favorite local place that we were forced to boyc . . . oh wait.

Hey, the bread was in the freezer. What were we going to do, waste it? We're campers; we don't waste food.

. . . plus the bread crumbs came out great.

Next step?

Sauce. Actually, that was my first step, but who's counting?

And then? This may sound astounding but neither Mistah nor I have ever done that dredge-dip-dredge thing . . .

. . . and man is that fun.

Dredge . . .

. . . dip . . .

. . . dredge . . .

. . . repeat . . .

. . . until you have a plateful of raw-yet-coated chickens.

And then? You know what to do . . . 

. . . sauté those bad boys for a minute or two a side, in the olive oil in the cast iron.

. . .  put them in the baking dish . . .

. . .  put way too much mozzarella cheese upon them . . .

. . . and way too much sauce and way too much Parmesan. Because you are you and you are Schleck, and you overcheese and oversauce everything.

You are you! Oversauce away. Overcheese it like you mean it.

Put the conglomeration in . . .

. . . take it out . . .

. . . and marvel at the curly-cue steam coming off of it. I mean, if you could patent those steam curly cues, wouldn't you?

Wait, never mind. Forget that. Do not pursue that; that's my idea.

Anyway. Eschew boring ol' spaghetti for fancy Tagliatelle Nests, plate it up, and . . . 

. . .  Dinnah!

With a spinach salad, natch.

And because we are us, because we are we, sauce drips all over everything, and wrecks the photos . . . and because of that, we love it all the more.

Bon Appétit!