"Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles..."

If you're standing up, you might want to sit down.  Before you fall over.  Because I..... COOKED!  Like, real, honest-to-goodness, using-the-oven, cooked.

A long time ago (months and months and months), I had seen this recipe online for Spinach-Artichoke-Dip Stuffed Chicken Breasts.  I love spinach artichoke dip.  I love chicken.  The dish looked really really good.  It looked like a restaurant dish.

I checked the online menu of local restaurants.  No one made it.

I asked Jonathan if he would want to make it.  He hates cooking meat.  He pointed out that no one else in the household but me likes spinach artichoke dip.

He had a point.

I waited.

I pondered.

One random night last week, I decided that I really wanted this dish, and darn it if I wasn't going to make it myself.  The woman who wrote the blog entry said that this was an easy recipe to make, an "after-work recipe."  I trusted her.

(I was a fool.  The woman lied.  It apparently is only easy if 

a. One has ever cooked meat before, or 

b. One knows what a meat thermometer is and how to use it or 

c. One knows what "to taste" means, because really, how much is that?!  or 

d. One is not constantly interrupted by three young children.  

But, I digress.)

Where was I?

Oh yes, the recipe.

Cut and pasted blatantly from her blog:

Ingredients:

skinless boneless chicken breasts, trimmed of fat

prepared spinach artichoke dip

To taste: salt, pepper, garlic powder, dried basil 

1 can of medium artichoke hearts (packed in water), drained

1 pint of cherry tomatoes, halved

3 Tbsp olive oil

2 Tbsp all purpose flour

2 - 3 large cloves of garlic, minced fine

2 cups grated mozzarella cheese  

handful of fresh basil, cut into ribbons

I somehow figured out how to take the excess fat off the chicken breasts, and then I sliced deep into each of them, making a pocket.  I inserted a big spoonful of spinach artichoke dip into each pocket.  Per her instructions, I threaded two toothpicks into the edges of each chicken breast to keep it together.  It actually worked.  (It would have worked better had she specified not to use party toothpicks, which were the only ones I had in the house, as apparently the pretty blue and red and yellow colors can actually come off and stain the chicken once it's cooked... but I digress again.)

Then Ari and I "liberally sprinkled" the chicken with kosher salt, black pepper, dried basil, and garlic powder.  (Which meant I told Ari to sprinkle things until my chicken looked like the chicken in her pictures.) 

Behold, toothpicked-and-liberally-sprinkled chicken:

Next up I had Ari help me rinse, drain and quarter the artichoke hearts, wash and halve the cherry tomatoes, and mince garlic. (Again, the blog author forgot to specify in her recipe that having a 3 year old help with everything adds to the preparation time immeasurably.  Apparently her little daughter in the pictures is a cooking genius who never ever tries to do such things as oh, smash artichokes until they're a paste, or accidentally fling garlic across the room.)  It took three times longer than it would have had I done it myself, but he had fun and got to participate.  

Then Ari scooped everything into a bowl, and together we added olive oil and more salt, pepper, and basil.  Oh, and the flour.  Who knew that a mere two tablespoons of flour would thicken the dish and make it much less runny? (Don't you dare say, "people who cook.")  We poured the bowl's contents over the chicken.

Behold, artichoke-and-tomato-mixture-topped chicken:

Next, I put the whole thing in the oven.  The recipe said to take it out when the thermometer read 155 degrees.  Okay.  After 10 minutes I took it out, unwrapped my brand-new meat thermometer, stuck it in a thick part of the chicken, and realized that I would have to wait a few minutes until the damn thing heated up to read it, at which point the chicken would already be cooling.  I looked in her recipe.  No tips.  I dug the thermometer wrapping out of the recycling bin.  Huh. Again, who knew.  Apparently you have to insert the thermometer from the beginning.

I inserted the thermometer.  Crap.  Now the dish wouldn't fit in the oven, because the top of the thermometer brushed the top of the oven.

I rearranged every %^& shelf in the oven.

I put the chicken back in.

I took it out at 155 degrees.

I topped it with a whole bunch of Parmesan and grated mozzarella cheese.

Behold, meat-thermometer-cheesed chicken:

I put the dish back in the oven.  I took it out when it reached 165 degrees. 

Two hours had now passed since I started.

This had gone from an "after-work dinnertime recipe" to a "the children are now in bed and I am still cooking" recipe.

I admit that I did not follow the next step exactly.  I did not lovingly slice the fresh basil ribbons and place them atop the chicken.  I savagely ripped the now-wilted basil by hand and threw it on half-heartedly.  

But I was elated.  It smelled fantastic.

The instructions were to "serve hot and gooey," and my mouth was watering.

Behold, the finished dish:

I got out my plate and cutlery.  I was reaching for a serving utensil to put a piece on my plate.

And then the baby cried.

I was crestfallen.

I nursed the baby.  I put him back to bed.

20 minutes later, I cut myself a piece of still-kinda-hot-but-no-longer-gooey chicken.  I plated it, if by "plating" one means, "this is so tender it came apart in pieces and now looks really odd on the plate," so there are no pictures.

But oh my goodness it tasted AMAZING!! In all seriousness, I was proud of myself for trying something new.

And yes, Jonathan was right.  No one else in the household will touch it.

But that's okay by me.  I have leftovers upon leftovers.  And all of it is delicious!