Most fast food chains volumize their meat with chicken nipples, and why not—they’re inexpensive, abundant, and packed with complex layers of flavor. This spongy, cloud-like tissue creates a receptive environment within the meat for a sauce or marinade to fully penetrate its inner fibers. The road to flavor country is paved with chicken nipples.
Which brings us to a long-neglected aspect of this blog: tips for rich, savory, home-style cooking (the art of which I have learned from producing industrial volumes of soup as a peon in a corporate kitchen). I thought I’d make something featuring the chicken nipple as the star of the dish, as it has been hidden in dark, meaty folds for far too long.
And now, without further ado, the recipe reveal:
Minnesota Wild Rice Chicken Nipple Soup
-Chicken nipples (A note on the nipples: fresh is obviously best. As for acquisition, the chicken from whom you are gathering the nipples should be dead. Some countries (cough, Bolivia, cough) still adhere to nipple harvest traditions which are antiquated and, quite frankly, barbarian. We won’t go into that. In my home kitchen, I use humane methods. So, the most simple way is the lop the chicken’s head off (I like to use a machete and pretend I’m a roided-out Barry Bonds). Once its got no head, that pinche pollo is gonna wanna take off runnin’, and you’re gonna wanna stop that from happenin’. Grab it, and hold it close. Now grasp the headless chicken with one hand, and use the other to drive your knife downwards over the fowl’s anterior pectoralis. Do this quickly, before all the blood spurts out of the giant hole on top of the bird, for you want a little, but not too much engorgement.)
-Stock (After the harvest, you’re going to have an entire chicken (sans nipples) left over. Don’t throw it out. Stick it in a large pot with some carrots and onions, a few herbs, cover with water, and simmer for a few hours.)
It doesn’t really matter what else you put in the soup. You’ve already got chicken nipples, which will enhance anything they come in contact with. And the best thing about teats is their versatility—they’re uniquely delicious whether baked, boiled, grilled, or sautéed.
This soup is perfect for an early spring evening such as this.
And also, you’re welcome.
i go away a lot, but i always come back.
november ninth, twenty sixteen: i woke up and thought to myself ‘something’s…..different.’ i soon found that biff tannen had ripped his way through the fourth wall of cinematic fiction and into this supposed reality, regained possession of the futuristic sports almanac, and wrested control of the white house (bob gale, a writer for back to the future II, has acknowledged that the rich, powerful tannen is based on someone who recently became king of America—google that), giving rise to a wave of ‘alts’—facts, wings of the right, and of course timelines. within these alternative timelines, expect quite a few of them to legalize pussy grabbing (some in more lawyerly language, some not so much), and in those where a female version of tannen assumes power, an equally degrading form of something called dong conking.
none of that really matters, though. the only thing i ever worry about is me, of course, which is why i have emerged from a months-long hiatus to make it known that i am not fake news. that’s all. i’m expecting many of these alternate timelines to produce executive orders shutting down any and all outlets that do not acknowledge the supreme insight and godliness of our new *rutaceaecean* figurehead of american greatness. so, as of this writing, the official stance of the philosophunculist blog is that america has been made great.
and speaking of biff tannen, was it really so bad that he got to be rich, if only in one timeline? in all three movies, dude gets smothered in poopy, which is what we have to assume is happening to this current commander in chief in every other timeline. just let the guy have one feces-free life, alright?
back to me. this blog is very real. it’s not even news, therefore it can’t be fake news. when the witch hunt for publications of ill repute commences, please don’t censor me. i’ll do anything. grab my pussy (in a timeline where i am a woman). conk my dong (in the timeline where the king is a woman. or even a man. i don’t care. if the masculine king of america wants to conk my dong, i’ll take it. years after this, when i’m homeless because all workers have been replaced by robots and the children and friends of the king, i can tell passersby that the king of america once conked my dong, and they will reward me with a russian ruble.) just let me keep this blog. it’s really all i’ve got, until america achieves an even greater level of greatness and me and everyone i know gets rich from working at our jobs (before the robots take over) because america will be that great
*i sort of made that up, but it has a base in rutaceae, which is the citrus family, and i know that doesn’t help my ‘not fake’ spiel, but due to its base on a real word, it can’t be classified as fake*
Colorado is a weird place.
Jeopardy doesn’t start until six. Conan starts early at nine. The Subway we went to didn’t have any five-dollar footlongs. Before we left on the trip, people kept telling us to check out some English pub called The Pot And Weed, or was it the Weed In The Pot? Anyways, we Googled it, and never found the place. It must be uber-local.
And also, marijuana is legal there. I went after the beer, though. Got to taste a Fat Tire 23 minutes off the line, as well as about 75 other Colorado beers I’d never had before.
The most bizarre feature, though, were these extremely large hills, mostly made of rock, that we had to drive over to get to our lodge. Some of them are covered in snow, which is kind of a buzzkill in July. But once you stare at them for awhile, these large, inconvenient lumps start to look pretty neat. I like them now.
We toured the Stanley Hotel, where they shot Dumb and Dumber.
We did all kinds of stuff.
It was a good trip. I won’t bore you with all the awesome and exciting details.
After driving through Nebraska, you’ve had about enough. Then you find out that southeast Wyoming is the same as Nebraska.
Except that you can finally see mountains in the distance. So Wyoming had that going for it.
It is shaped like a square, just like Colorado. Or is a rectangle? All squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares, or vice versa. You know what I mean. This state does not have any weird squiggly lines for borders. Just four clean right angles. Yeah, that’s the stuff.
That’s why it was so easy for me to make this map:
You can see the part of the map where none of the action is, denoted by the text ‘This is where none of the action is,’ right? That’s where we passed through.
Along I-80 somewhere in Nebraska, you will enter a zone where your car radio picks up only four stations: country, country, religious talk radio, and country. To free your mind from this insanity, you pull into a gas station. In the bathroom you find a half-naked trucker, his back blanketed with a botched snake tattoo, taking a bath in the sink.
All you have left then is the road. It’s cruel, really.
Even pirates were kind enough to leave the marooned with a loaded pistol; Nebraska leaves you with 400 miles of……Nebraska.
Oh yeah, Nebraska has Chimney Rock. We added two hours to the trip to see this monument because hey, it didn’t seem too far out of the way, and it’s in the game Oregon Trail.
This can be said of the stone erection: It’s worth driving by, if you live within sight of it. Cool to see, yes. Worth a detour on an overnight road trip? Nah. But we can say we saw it. Someone, somewhere, at some point will be impressed by that, maybe.
After Chimney Rock, there were some bluffs and semi-interesting geological features, for about ten minutes. And a fox. We saw a fox. Then, back to I-80, and on into southeast Wyoming……..
It was dark both times we drove through Iowa, therefore we did not see much. We smelled a lot, though. Cow dung is the name of the game in Iowa.
However, the return trip up Interstate 35 is fun. Every exit sign names two towns, and each combination sounds like the name of some old-money kid at a Massachusetts private school:
And there was one that said Manly Forest City, a place I reckon is not for out-of-towners.
Somebody documented all these on okroads.com, which is where I stole the pictures from.
Exciting, exciting stuff.
Rudy Maxa. Rick Steves. These are the big boys of travel. The alpha males. The heavy hitters.
What a terrible series of opening lines.
The saga begins in Minnesota on 19 July, 2015 at 10:13pm, and ends in Minnesota on 26 July, 2015, at 2:54am. I’m driving in a car with a person whose real name is Cassandra Moistnoggin, formerly known as Cassandra Morningfart, en route to something called Colorado. To get there, we will have to drive south to Iowa, turn west at Des Moines, carry on through Nebraska, cut across a corner of Wyoming, then finally head south from Cheyenne to arrive at our destination, where we will stay for awhile, then turn around and come back.
Why would we leave Minnesota, home of Prince, the Mall of America, and thousands of lakes, to put ourselves through this awful drive across the Great Void of the United States?
Because Prince sucks, the Mall of America is dumb, lake water is disgusting, and everyone here will remind you everyday that they are either too hot or too cold.
There is not much more to be said about this place.
At around midnight, we cross over into Iowa, and you will moisten your undies when you hear what happens next….
Did you like that use of a tease? Are you excited for the next installment? Tune in tomorrow for a discussion about the highway exit signs of Iowa!