Looks pretty good, doesn't it? It's chicken marinated in smoked paprika, ancho chili powder, chipotles, garlic, and lime and orange juices. The marinade smelled tangy and spicy; I had high hopes for it. I was looking for something to do with chicken thighs other than braise them, when I remembered that I like them on a roasted chicken, so why not roast them by themselves? I cooked them on a rack so the fat could drip off and the skin get crisp, and I reduced the leftover marinade with honey to make a sweet hot glaze. I made careful notes about the recipe, intending to share it here.
And you know what? It sucked. I don't know when I've made a dish I liked less. Nothing about the recipe worked at all. The fat didn't out of the meat very well, so most bites were squishy and greasy. And although I cooked them in basically the same way I'd cook a whole chicken, the chewy texture didn't live up to that example. Despite eight hours in the marinade, it didn't taste like anything other than gray, sinewy chicken thigh.
The expierance of working hard on something, only to find it barely edible, reminded me rather of my earliest culinary expiraments, immature fumblings with watery sauces and garlic from a jar. Practice may make perfect, but when it comes to dinner, when you've got to eat, you don't have the luxury of quietly setting aside the failures. My family suffered through a lot of subpar pork tenderloins until I finally devised a successful balsamic, rosemary, and mustard marinade when I was fourteen.
It's useful, I think, to occasionally fail. It reigns in the ego and stimulates innovation. I find that when one night's dinner results in slight shudders, I plan the subsequent meals with particular care. I shrug off whatever ideas and instincts motivated the previous disaster, and head in a completely different direction. If I hadn't suffered through the Chili-Citrus Disaster Thighs, I wouldn't have returned to braising with such enthusiasm, and wouldn't have had last night's Chicken, Mushroom, and Pepper Ragu with Goat Cheese Polenta.
That night, though, ideas for future dishes provided little comfort. Stephen and I ate the horrible chicken, liberally accompanied by roasted asparagus and buttered tortillas. Two nights later I chopped up the leftover meat, fried it with onions and hot sauce, and made it into entirely respectable quesadillas. They brought us unusual pleasure for the simple combination of chicken, tortilla, and cheese, if only because we measured them by the the previous night's grimace-inducing standard.
This is the recipe for the marinade, which completely failed:
1/2 cup orange juice
1/4 cup lime juice
1 tablespoon chopped garlic
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon ancho chile powder
1 teaspoon worchestshire sauce
1 seeded, chopped chipotle (about 1 1/2 teaspoons)
2 tablespoons olive oil
generous pinch salt
I'm quite sure that what you call failure was better than anything we've eaten out of the fridge here in months. Yet, you are correct, there is nothing quite like percieved failure to create a change in direction. When ever you think of failed meals always remember the ham slice in the fridge.
The recipe looks pretty good though--so odd! It may have failed as a marinade, but sounds like it made a good base for a sweet hot sauce.
A couple days ago I made a simple vegetable soup and totally ruined the delicious stock with a jalapeno. It got SO spicy! Practically inedible. Too spicy soup doesn't have the satisfying burn of spicy meat or vegetables. It sucks.
Glyn wouldn't eat it.
Ha! Ham slice. . . the meal that never was.
I suspect part of my chicken failure was the totally crap quality of the meat I made it with. I also think I could double the amounts of all the chilies and garlic. Of course, adding more chili is a frequent solution of mine, and it isn't always appropriate. I go nuts with dried chilies and end up with spice in places it doesn't always belong.
You know, you might be able to braise chunks of pork shoulder and potatoes in the too spicy broth and garnish is with creme fraiche, just to bulk it up and justify the heat.
There's an idea--actually, I tried using the stock to make dumplings (instead of water) but, er, that kinda failed too! Ha!
When Martha's Dad and I first married, he wanted biscuits and gravy. Sausage gravy, Tennessee style, like my Grandmother's. My first attempt was the consistancy of peanut butter. Except of course that it was a dirty white color with really big chuncks of sausage. The spoon stood in the middle, straight up. Casby, our springer spaniel, wouldn't even eat it and he would eat anything out of our garbage or out of the neighbors garbage without hesitation. It's funny now, 26 years later. Very funny.
Well, Mom, even to this day, you aren't known for your world-class gravy. You are, however, known for feeding people food to your pets. Huh.