About 15 years ago I ent down to the Isle of Wight with my girlfriend of the time, to stay with a friend of hers. The lass cooked us chicken breast. It was undercooked. Undercooked chicken is sort of translucent, and cold. It was ****ing diabolical. Unfortunately I was urged by my gal to not say anything. We all knew, but nobody said. We continues eating, and as peter Cook might have said, the band played on. This says more about the English lower middle class, and demented women of a certain type than anything. Why I went along with it beats me. Must have been love.
Fortunately, no ill effects, other than something I'd describe as the opposite of wistfulness. Never been back to the isle of Wight. I cook my chicken well done these days. Very well done.
Fortunately, no ill effects, other than something I'd describe as the opposite of wistfulness. Never been back to the isle of Wight. I cook my chicken well done these days. Very well done.