Jen dove back into the recipe book tonight, this time preparing Janet’s Chicken Cacciatore. Now, I’ve still never met Janet. I think she’s avoiding me. She has come up in conversation enough times that if I don’t recognize someone that Jen is talking to, I accuse her of being Janet, especially now that Lisa’s existence has been proven.
This is not the first time I’ve eaten Chicken Cacciatore. When I went to class at APL for my masters, I used to stop at Mamma Lucia’s for a chicken parm sub. This was an almost weekly occurrence, but I was too cheap to buy anything other than the sandwich. I determined that I would treat myself to a real meal the last time I went there before graduating. Having confused Chicken Cacciatore with Chicken Piccata, I accidentally ordered it for my celebratory meal.
The thing is, I don’t really care for peppers. They cause imbalance in the humors, make the blood angry. Regardless, Jen cooked it to perfection. Everything was of the perfect crispness, except for the chicken, which was appropriately moist. I are the peppers with gusto, because, damnit, my wife made me peppers and I was going to persevere. I couldn’t let Janet down either.
Words 
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