Hello, Fresh Hell

Step 1:

Wash your hands – one of the most important steps in meal preparation. We’re told this frequently as children, but by the time we’ve reached adulthood, some of us have forgotten (our surveys say). Pre-heat the oven to…why do you even read this part? You know it’s always the same. Alright, twist my arm then. Pre-heat the oven to 350°F.

Trim the green beans. No, not those beans, the green ones, you dickwad. Honestly, it’s amazing you even managed to get the delivery box open. Which is currently blowing its way down the street as you didn’t break down the cardboard or close the bin lid properly.

Realise we forgot to include the green beans, so go out to the shop in the rain, pass the cardboard box some poor soul is now tearing into a mattress, get splashed by a motorcyclist delivering fast food to some lucky neighbour, and buy some beans. Twenty minutes.

Once trimmed, season with salt and pepper.

Chop the chicken into 2cm cubes, season with salt and pepper.

Step 2:

Boil the kettle. No, not the actual kettle – the water inside it. While waiting, pretend to read this recipe while zoning out and daydreaming about your favourite takeaway pizza. Dunking the rim into the delicious dip, laughing joyously at the longest string you swear you’ve even made out of the molten cheese. Good times. The triangular times, before the trying times. Two minutes.

Realise the frying pan is in the washing up bowl. Chisel away the residue of last night’s abomination of a meal, douse the remnants in your tears of frustration to finally dislodge them (and because you’ve run out of washing up liquid). We good to go? Heat a drop of oil in a frying pan. Okay, be a devil, add a couple more drops. No, that’s too many. Season your bath of oil with salt and pepper.

Coat the chicken in our special herbs. Toss and fry until golden brown. Shriek while globules of sizzling oil leap onto your hands and forearms. Close the window because your yelps have set off next door’s dog. Five minutes, though the scars will last somewhat longer. Don’t worry, you’ll come up with a better way to explain your mottled skin in the future, we’re sure.

Step 3:

Fail to understand how to open the brand new ‘sustainable’ packaging for the rice. Eventually stab the carton open with a knife. Watch as some grains head for the floor. Decide they’ve got the right idea – a lie down would be nice right about now. You’ve already been standing up all day at work, then tearing around dodging puddles and seeking beans, and now you’re expected to come home and stand some more. You’re great at standing for everything – except standing up for yourself, according to your father. You did your research on us, and we returned the favour – with the flavour!). Add the rice to the water. Not in the kettle; transfer the water to a medium sized pan first. Do I have to spell everything out for you? Season with salt and pepper. Five minutes, although feels like longer.

Trim and slice the shallot. Cut finger. Turn kitchen upside down looking for plasters. Five minutes. Realise that bitch Sharon must have taken them all when she moved out. Curse Sharon, and all who sail in her. Season with salt and pepper. Rub salt into wound.

Peel and grate the garlic or use a garlic press – if you even have one.

Step 4:

Add another drop of oil to the chicken thighs, wondering if you’ll ever know the touch of a woman’s thigh again. Feel ashamed for comparing women to pieces of meat. Realise you’ll need to make another trip to the shop tomorrow to top up your oil supplies. Contemplate whether these outwardly seductive subscription boxes really do make your culinary life more efficient. And when did the cost of olive oil become similar to that of champagne? Same colour, but one makes you remember (when all your meals were cooked for you) and one makes you forget.

Find packet of mixed herbs under this recipe sheet. Go back and check the steps. You forgot, didn’t you? Too busy panicking about breaking the news of Sharon’s departure to your mother, who suspected as much would happen, given Sharon ended up with a good for nothing like you.

Season with Salt N Pepa. Dance around the kitchen to exquisite high voltage 80s rap pop while the vegetables soften alongside the chicken and a billion other things in not so sustainable packets. Three minutes.

Neighbour bangs on wall. Turn the volume down. Simmer for 5-6 minutes.

Step 5:

Tentatively try chicken. Try not to singe your tongue, imbecile. Add more salt and pepper, if you think it needs it, and we’ve seen how stingy you are, so it probably does. It’s what Sharon saw in you too. Sharon, who has plucked and basted herself and is currently being stuffed by that loser Jimmy.

Wonder if Sharon’s cooked corpse would taste more like chicken or fish. Decide you’ll rewatch Silence of the Lambs tonight.

Step 6:

With a fork, fluff up the rice, fluff it up while your feet are stomping and the herbs are pumping. What? Does somebody suddenly not feel like dancing anymore? Okay, we’ll dial it down. Which is what you need to do with the oven and hob too, unless you want to add ‘burning down the house’ to your list of calamities/80s breakup playlist.

Yes, use the dirty fork, it’s fine. No dignitaries pulling up to your table anytime soon. Spoon into bowls, if Sharon left you any, after she spent a while throwing some of them at your head. Top with the cuboid, undoubtedly burned chicken. Enjoy!

N.B. Please remember to leave us a review. It really helps us refine our products and bring you more tasteful joy. That is, if you can break yourself away from stalking Jimmy’s Instagram (Sharon has already blocked you, obviously). Thanks!