Places we have found our own little "fort builder":
In old soda boxes, Under the plastic covering of a case of Propel, In Emily's work bag, Under the chair cover, In the laundry hamper, In a paper bag, In cardboard boxes, Under cardboard boxes, Between the shower curtains, Under the covers!
Yes, the rumors are true. We have finally mastered the art of sweet and sour chicken. The effort was long and laborious, but the fruit of our labors was sweet indeed (and sour). I suppose I should let you in on the back story to this amazing feat of cookery.
It all started on a Saturday morning. A Saturday morning much like any other EXCEPT for the fact that Emily was out of the house at a girl's brunch. It was that morning that I hatched my devious plans for her birthday celebration.
The plans were thus: Wait for the wife to come home from the brunch. Take said wife on a shopping spree as per her request. Accompany wife in selecting professional yet stylish articles of clothing, swiping credit card as necessary. Tender the lovely lady one coupon for a tasty beverage of her choice. Escort her to Canyon Crest for an evening of fine dining. Slip her a coupon for one hour of some form of service from her husband (massage, housework, etc.).
This is where the plan took an unexpected turn. Instead of the cleaning that I had anticipated, Emily requested that I make sweet and sour chicken for her on Monday. Yes, the same sweet and sour chicken that she had more than a little trouble with (see the Disgusting post for more info). Now, some of you aren't familiar with my wife's cooking. Well, without rambling for too long, I'll just say that her cooking does not come out bad. I just didn't think it was possible. So, now I was entrusted with making a dish that even Emily could not master. Goody.
Fortunately for me, Emily decided to give me some coaching as I attempted sweet and sour chicken. I proceeded to measure, mince, slice, stir, batter, and boil my way toward what would hopefully be a delicious dinner. The results were as follows:
Somehow, I managed to succeed where my wife had failed. In the end, it came down to the fact that I got the batter for the chicken to come out right. It may have been the fact that I fried a few pieces of chicken at a time, or that I had a deep fryer at my disposal, or that I'm somehow a better cook than my wife... Yeah right. But due to my success with the whole battering process as well as a track record for a few good pizza crusts, Emily now affectionately refers to me as her 'dough boy.' Oh boy.
