(EDIT: Did I wind up eating that chicken raw? Find out that and so much more right here.)

I've fallen into a pattern that has me reserving Friday night for cooking something new and just generally relaxing (such is life on the bleeding edge), but today I find myself out of stride. No soup supplies hanging out on the chest freezer, no ten different casserole recipes being cross-referenced, not even a taco kit taken down from the cupboard. No sir (or ma'am), all I've got is a pack of chicken breasts cut stir-fry style. That at least is nice, because damn do I hate preparing chicken (and that's an attitude I've copped without even dealing with more than untrimmed chest pieces).

What you ought to be taking away at this point is that I don't know what to eat tonight, aside from it being chicken. I did get a very nice lazy-Susan-of-spices for my birthday, which I intend to make some use of, but "chicken" and "spices" are more a direction than they are a route, so I'm still sitting on a stump poking at my kitchen compass, in a strictly metaphorical sense.

I mean, I suppose stir fry is a pretty obvious end point, what with it being written right on the chicken's packaging. I've got some fancy rice. Eh?

I don't know. It's not particularly important.