going for the goal 2013 #3: royal pursuits

Listen, if there is one common love in the McPolish-Swede household it is this:

Fried. Chicken.

I’m not kidding. Being from the south suburbs of Chicago, Swede and I grew up with some heavy, heavy South Side influences:

1. Graduation parties are hosted in your garage;
2. All Hail the White Sox;
3. Red pop doesn’t have a specific berry-related flavor, it’s just Red Pop; and
4. Fried chicken is an essential element to every gathering.

That last one has proven critical throughout my lifetime—fried chicken is present at every tailgate, eaten out of the trunk of a car. It’s at every graduation, first communion, and baptism party, alongside a huge tinfoil container of mostaccioli and a huge tinfoil container of thinly sliced roast beef. Hell, if I remember correctly, my sister had fried chicken at her rehearsal dinner.

Mind you, this isn’t the South, it’s the South Side. So when I say fried chicken, I’m not talking about some wizened grandma swinging around a cast iron pan like it’s a feather pillow and frying up amazing chicken using an old family recipe. I’m talking about South Side delicious fried chicken. And South Side fried chicken comes from Harold’s, or it comes from the deli counter at the grocery store. One time it came from a gas station in Northwest Indiana. And if you order enough pieces, it comes in what looks like a bankers box lined with tinfoil to keep it warm.

This is all to say that when we traveled to Nashville a couple weekends ago, and more than one person hollered at me that my life depended on tasting the goods at Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack, I made quick work of getting our Chicago patoots to the joint.

Hot chicken is a Thing in Nashville, and thank God for it. It’s not that it’s temperature-hot—though it is that, too—it’s that the hot is fried right into the batter, embedding the crispy, just-slightly-greasy-enough fried chicken skin and meat with heat. I got the medium, which was plenty hot for me (who does enjoy some spice and heat), and Swede got the hot, which he could enjoy once his tastebuds adjusted to the shock of intense heat.

Bawwwwk! Enough babbling, though, right? On to brass tacks, yes? Yes.

Going for the Goal #3: Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack

The restaurant itself nothing special by way of décor, and the place is in a dicey looking neighborhood, but all that is easily and happily pushed aside when you realize what delectable await you.

Pros:

The Cake Lady. Before you even get to the ordering window you will encounter a congenial woman sitting behind a card table laden with thick, large, individually contained squares of baked goods. Chess pie. Red velvet cake. Strawberry chess squares. Hummingbird cake. All sitting there looking so happy you will want to love on each and every piece. I recommend loving on the strawberry chess squares. They will love you right back. And then you will both be in love with the Cake Lady for bringing you and your cake mate together in sweet, sweet harmony.

The Sides. Yes, the chicken is delicious, if you haven’t gotten that already. Yes, it is hot. Yes, you will feel fat and happy after devouring it. But also do yourself a favor, and devour a side or two with the chicken. There are only a few to choose from—baked beans, coleslaw, French fries, and pickles. Swede was a big fan of the coleslaw—a nice way to cool down your mouth from the chicken, and frankly, I practically did backflips over the fact that you can order a side of pickles. Like, your own personal Styrofoam cup of dill chips.

I don’t know if you know this about me, Interwebers, but This Girl? Loves her some dill pickles in any form. Almost as much as pizza. And fried chicken.

And whatever you do, don’t overlook the white bread upon which the chicken rests. It’s not an extra side, per se, it’s just part of the chicken package. It’s both functional AND scrumptious, soaking up the juice and the hot and the fried bits of the chicken, transforming a blah slice of industrial white bread that cannot be healthy for you in any way into a dreamy taste of heaven that…also…can’t be healthy for you in any way. But it doesn’t matter! It’s heaven! No such thing as bad-for-you-foods in heaven. Ta-da!

The Staff. Holy Mary Mother, people. I don’t know if it was because we were in the South, or if it is just the nature of the people in the joint, but dear Lord was everyone kind and (seemingly) happy to meet you. I mean, come on. I’m from the Midwest—I know from friendly. Clearly we can pick up some pointers at the very least from the woman working the register at Prince’s, who thanked me for joining them that afternoon. Sheesh. The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am, thanks for the food.

The Cons:

The Wait. With each order made as soon as you pay, it is inevitable that you will have to wait for your freshly fried chicken. And now, since Prince’s recently won a James Beard award (and also, it should be noted, a Steve Harvey “hoodie” award), lines will surely grow longer than they already are as foodies flock to this joint. (Get it? Flock? Ha.) Moral of the Story Part I: Go hungry, but not about-to-faint-famished, because, Moral of the Story Part II: a 30 to 45 minute wait is totally normal. Maybe bring a snack. And a book. And wear comfortable shoes because there aren’t many places to sit, and most likely the seats will all be taken by the time you get there anyway.

It’s Cash Only. And they don’t take personal checks, either. (Who writes checks anymore, anyway?) It’s not a huge con, but for someone like me who rarely carries cash, it was something I kept reminding myself about before we left: Don’t spend the little cash I DID have in my wallet, otherwise I’d be a sad, fried chickenless McPolish. And that’s no fun for anyone.

On a scale of one to go? If you’re in Nashville, don’t chicken out—Prince’s is an awesome experience that will set your fried chicken-loving heart—and mouth—aflame.

Three down, 10 to go. 

photo friday: not for long

Last weekend we were in Nashville for a wedding, and couldn’t help but stop at the Jim Beam distillery on the way down.

I love a good production tour–what can I say? It’s the CPG nerd in me–and damn if I’m not trying to come up with a bourbon version of  Schlemiel! Schlimazel! Hasenpfeffer Incorporated! 

Any ideas, Interwebers?

csb april: whisk-y behavior

The Violent Femmes showed up in my kitchen right as I was getting ready to bake the April cake for the Cake Slice Bakers, an almond streamliner cake with lemon custard. I didn’t have the heart to tell them to kiss off, so I let them stay, so long as they promised to sit quietly at the kitchen table and not screw with my baking process.

Which they did not.

Turns out, the Femmes were more help than I thought they would be. First of all, because in putting together the ingredients for the cake, I almost added too much butter (if that’s even possible). I’d left two sticks on the counter to soften, and dumped both of them in, belatedly realizing that the recipe only called for 10 tablespoons of butter.

“Wait, how many tablespoons are in two sticks of butter?” I asked myself.

“Add it up!” the Femmes shouted back.

I counted on my fingers, did the math, and scooped out the excess six tablespoons and was all, “Hey, Violent Femmes, thanks for the encouragement. But please. No yelling in the kitchen.”

And they were all, “Let me go on!”

And I was all, “NO! This is MY kitchen!”

Even after that scuffle, though, the Femmes were still good kitchen mates, and decent conversationalists. Because do you know how tedious it is to temper eggs and milk into custard, whisking consistently until it’s entirely possible that your wrist will up and secede from the rest of your body? No? Well, it’s true. I did not find this out, however, until I was making the vibrant lemon custard that tops this cake, midway into the tedium. So it was nice to have someone to talk to during All The Whisking, even if the Femmes seemed a little, well, obsessed about the topic at hand.

Violent Femmes: “Do you like American music?”

Me: “I like all kinds of music.”

Femmes: “I like American music too.”

Me: “That’s nice.”

Femmes: “Baaaaa-by.”

Me: (Pausing only slightly in the whisking) “I think you’ve done too many drugs.”

Eventually I had to cut off all conversation and concentrate on the custard, lest it become lemon-flavored scrambled eggs. And none too soon, I tell you, because the Femmes were teetering on the edge of going way too far emo for my liking, moaning and lamenting the fact that no one would go to the prom with them.

Anyway, after what seemed like an eternity of whisking, the custard looked thick enough to toss in a bowl, cover, and shove in the fridge for awhile while I made and cooled the cake portion. It was a rather easy to-do, as far as cakes go, though I was quite suspicious of the almond paste, being that it seemed dense and thick and how-the-shit-am-I-going-to-get-this-to-mix-in like when it lumped out of the jar. But considering there was virtually no whisking involved as compared to the custard-making, you could have told me to sift the flour ten times and twice on Sunday before adding it to the mix and I would STILL say that this was an easy-peasy cake to make.

Not that I would have sifted flour that many times. I don’t think I’ve sifted flour any times ever. Mostly because I don’t own a sifter. But if I did, you could bet that I would sift away. You know why? BECAUSE IT’S NOT WHISKING.

(No, I didn’t know, either, how averse I was to whisking until I made this damn cake. You learn something new every day, eh? Eh.)

Somewhere during all of this measuring and stirring and panning the Violent Femmes somehow managed to slip out the door, gone, daddy, gone, replaced by Miss Saigon, who was quickly replaced by Fantine and Eponine, but they didn’t stick around for long either because a certain Swede who shall remain nameless has declared them, “whiney.”

And that’s okay; I wasn’t up for sharing the cake with them anyway. I wanted to keep its dense, almondy goodness for myself, the bright, fresh lemon custard a perfect counterpart of tang—even if the result was a more soupy, yogurt-like that ran all over the cake instead of a thick and creamy texture that set nicely on top of the cake. I guess I didn’t do nearly enough whisking.

Go figure.

photo friday: it’s here

It’s officially spring in Chicago, as evidenced by the appearance of the Wendella. We expect this season to last about as long as it takes you to eat a hot dog while cruising down the river.

may-a-day photo challenge

As any good project lover/list maker might do, I had the brilliant idea to get a photo-a-day challenge going for the month of May. Below you’ll find a list of daily prompts for you to interpret as you see fit, and I hope you’ll consider playing along daily, weekly, or whatever fits in with your schedule, even if the most you can muster is checking out what other people have photographed. It doesn’t matter whether you take pictures with a fancy-pants camera, or just click away with your smartphone—whatever makes you happy, is what McPolish says!

If you do want to play along, post your photos on Instagram, Twitter, or your own blog with the hashtag #MayADay and/or #McPolish, You can also leave a link to your photo in the comments section of this post reminding me—and the rest of the readers—to visit your photos so we can properly ooohhh and ahhhh.

Happy May, everyone!

Now get snapping, Interwebers, and show me what you’ve got!

McPolish May-A-Day Photo Challenge Prompts:

1 Pastime                               11 Timing                 21 Balance              

2 My Indulgence                 12 Mom                     22 Yellow

3 Fresh                                   13 Power                  23 Joy

4 Run                                      14 Foodie                 24 Travel

5 Through                             15 Surprise              25 Cook

6 Brown                                 16 Change                26 Jump

7 Love                                     17 Plant                      27 Memorial

8 Work                                   18 Simple                   28 Grow

9 Amazing                             19 Disaster                 29 Renew

10 Cool                                   20 Type                       30 Biology

                                                                                         31 Next 

photo friday: ad-libbing

Last week, I made this recipe for blueberry muffins. Looking at the batter, I didn’t feel it looked blueberry-ish enough.

So I added chocolate chips.

I regret nothing.

 

 

photo friday: a sampling

Grocery shopping has long been one of my favorite activities, and the other weekend it was made even better by the fact that the wine samplers were out in full force at my local store.

Dangerous, I tell you. Marvelously, deliciously dangerous.

Wine Sample Saturdays is the answer to all of life’s question. Namely, “How did I wind up with a shopping cart full of brie and Twinkies?”