I like to think I am pretty proficient when it comes to cooking especially when it comes to grilling out. I did the majority of the cooking when I was married. After I had lost my job as a long haul truck driver due to medical reasons, I was stuck at home and wanted to pull my weight. I would sit down every week and plan out menus for our meals. I tried all kinds of different recipes and they came with great applauds from my then wife. One of her favorites was my rendition of chicken cordon bleu. She got breakfast and dinner prepared every day by me for the longest time so she could concentrate on work and graduating from college.
Tonight, my mother invited me over for dinner via a phone call.
“Your dad wants you to eat with us tonight. He is grilling teriyaki chicken and we are having baked potatoes, salad, and toasted barbeque bread. He even made a home made blue cheese dressing for the salad.” She said.
I told her I would love to come and eat and then I hung up the phone and got in the shower. I then walked the two hundred yards from my house to theirs. Upon arriving up on my parent’s back deck, Dad handed me a pair of tongs and asked me to watch the chicken on the charcoal grill for him while he finished the rest of the meal.
A few moments passed until they were growing very brown. I stuck a fork in one and could tell that they were almost done. I walked into the kitchen to tell my father that I was taking them off.
“No, let me use my meat thermometer. They should be at 180 degrees before we take them off.” He replied.
I kind of shrugged my shoulders and said okay. He walked outside and stuck the thermometer into a breast and the temperature sat at around 170 degrees. By this time, I continually had to turn them to keep them from burning.
“Dad, I think they are done.” I said.
“Let’s wait for the temperature to rise.” He replied.
“You remember the last time we relied on the thermometer, don’t you? You and mom were cooking the icing for a cake and you went to the hard ball stage and not the soft ball stage and the icing got too hard to spread on the cake layers.” I responded.
“The thermometer says that poultry should be cooked to 180 before we take it off.” He replied.
Ten more minutes passed and I was now sure the chicken was over cooked. I walked into the kitchen and got a knife. I walked back outside and cut open the thickest breast and there was no pink inside and the juices ran clear.
“Dad, they are done. I am taking them off. They are getting too dry.” I said.
He agreed and took them off. We ate our meal and the chicken was as tough as leather. We had grilled six chicken breasts and chicken breasts are not cheap. He got upset about it. He was tempted to go to the grocery store and buy more chicken breasts and charcoal and try again but I persuaded him not to do so. It had grown too dark outside to see well to grill.
After eating, he looked at the magazine that he had read that day for answers and he realized his mistake. It said 170 degrees for white meat on a grill and 180 degrees for dark meat on a grill. He had a eureka moment and declared that we will be having grilled chicken again tomorrow evening. This time he was going to get it right.
The chicken really wasn’t that bad after all. I enjoyed the meal and our conversations afterwards. Dad can just be a perfectionist about things. The home made blue cheese dressing was delicious and he got that recipe just right. I especially enjoyed the toasted barbeque bread and that was a treat. Well, it seems that grilled chicken is again on the horizon tomorrow. I am sure tomorrow nights meal will be prepared to perfection at last. I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.
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