My mother has cooked tandoori chicken at home for as long as I can remember. Admittedly, she hasn't made it in many years, but it certainly served as a staple during many weekday dinners and summer cookouts and proved to be a hit with us as young children. Packed with flavor, tandoori chicken also happens to be remarkably easy to make, making it an especially appealing choice for a main dish on a busy week night.
I distinctly remember my parents being overly concerned about my eating habits during college. They visited me a lot the first few years I left home after high school, probably in fear that I would wither away from eating the awful cafeteria food offered in my college dorm. When visiting, my mother made sure to pack at least two weeks worth of food for me to stow away in the tiny mini-fridge I shared with my roommate (much to her chagrin). She always seemed to include tandoori chicken, carefully packaged in large Ziploc freezer bags for easy storage. My friends loved it, too -- I would often share with them when I had a fresh supply. This was also one of the first dishes my mom showed me how to prepare when learning to cook. When I moved into my first apartment with two of my closest college friends and had to fend for myself in the kitchen, I often made tandoori chicken for myself and my roommates.
I now have other tandoori recipes but one of my fondest memories involving tandoori chicken actually involves our sweet pup, Sasha, a Jack Russell terrier who sadly passed away a little over a year ago. Sasha was a sweet, well-mannered dog whose athleticism kept us on our toes and whipped us up into the best shape of our lives. Our sweet Sasha had a bit of a wild side, too -- she regularly stalked small animals, like birds and squirrels, and often patiently schemed over several hours to execute elaborate plans to get what she wanted. Here's an example.
I distinctly remember my parents being overly concerned about my eating habits during college. They visited me a lot the first few years I left home after high school, probably in fear that I would wither away from eating the awful cafeteria food offered in my college dorm. When visiting, my mother made sure to pack at least two weeks worth of food for me to stow away in the tiny mini-fridge I shared with my roommate (much to her chagrin). She always seemed to include tandoori chicken, carefully packaged in large Ziploc freezer bags for easy storage. My friends loved it, too -- I would often share with them when I had a fresh supply. This was also one of the first dishes my mom showed me how to prepare when learning to cook. When I moved into my first apartment with two of my closest college friends and had to fend for myself in the kitchen, I often made tandoori chicken for myself and my roommates.
I now have other tandoori recipes but one of my fondest memories involving tandoori chicken actually involves our sweet pup, Sasha, a Jack Russell terrier who sadly passed away a little over a year ago. Sasha was a sweet, well-mannered dog whose athleticism kept us on our toes and whipped us up into the best shape of our lives. Our sweet Sasha had a bit of a wild side, too -- she regularly stalked small animals, like birds and squirrels, and often patiently schemed over several hours to execute elaborate plans to get what she wanted. Here's an example.
A few years ago, I bought some cornish hens to make some tandoori chicken for my husband, Joe, and me. We shared a scrumptious meal, while Sasha stared us down from afar, silently "pleading" with us to give her just one morsel. I'm almost certain we gave her a tiny bit before cleaning up the kitchen and deconstructing the meat from the chicken bones. I threw away the chicken "carcass" (i.e. bones and some skin) in the pantry trash can before going to bed that night. As usual, Sasha climbed onto bed and under the covers (she curled up in her usual spot in the crook of my knees) before we fell fast asleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I suddenly woke to find Sasha missing. I called her to check in and make sure she was all right, but heard no response. I called a few more times, "Sasha bear!" but still, no sound. Panicked, I jumped out of my bed, fearful that she had fallen and broken a bone or suddenly gotten ill. What I found was a sly Jack Russell Terrier in the middle of the living room with her two front paws on a chicken carcass. "SASHA." I said in an accusatory tone. "What do you think you're DOING?" She looked up with an anxious look on her face, as if to say, "Gulp, I've been caught!"
I followed the trail of chicken carcass to the pantry trash can, which she knocked over to carefully and quietly dig out the meat bones without my knowing. Only Sasha would scheme in all hours of the night and wait until I fell asleep to initiate her awesome plan. Even she wanted a little piece of that tender, juicy, flavorful chicken. And who could blame her?
Sometime in the middle of the night, I suddenly woke to find Sasha missing. I called her to check in and make sure she was all right, but heard no response. I called a few more times, "Sasha bear!" but still, no sound. Panicked, I jumped out of my bed, fearful that she had fallen and broken a bone or suddenly gotten ill. What I found was a sly Jack Russell Terrier in the middle of the living room with her two front paws on a chicken carcass. "SASHA." I said in an accusatory tone. "What do you think you're DOING?" She looked up with an anxious look on her face, as if to say, "Gulp, I've been caught!"
I followed the trail of chicken carcass to the pantry trash can, which she knocked over to carefully and quietly dig out the meat bones without my knowing. Only Sasha would scheme in all hours of the night and wait until I fell asleep to initiate her awesome plan. Even she wanted a little piece of that tender, juicy, flavorful chicken. And who could blame her?
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