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jinyu
Age. 37
Gender. Female
Ethnicity.
Location Denver, CO
School. Other
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Sprocket's Training Milestones
Came home (Aug 2, 2014)
Asked to go outside (Aug 5, 2014)
Slept 4 hours straight (night) (Aug 5-6, 2014)
Crane Count
7/3/13 - 8
7/4/13 - 30
7/5/13 - 36
7/10/13 - 54
7/11/13 - 57
7/18/13 - 67
2/17/14 - 83
(cumulative)
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Moon Mod!
CURRENT MOON
To Read:
- Carrie
- Dream of the Red Chamber
- Time to Kill
- Scent of the Missing
- Stiff
Nano mod!
Barbeque Chicken Pizza
Tuesday. 8.7.07 10:33 pm

Today I made a Barbeque Chicken Pizza! I know! OMGWTFBBQ? I didn’t believe it to be possible either when I first heard the tale. How could those two amazing flavors ever meet? It all began, when I headed for home this fateful Tuesday afternoon. I had run out of work a little earlier than usual and, seeing as I had my car, my freedom and a relatively full bank account, I decided to go home. It was about 4:00 and I was thinking about my parents, toiling away at work and I thought, “Well… Since I have time, I am going to make dinner.” But what one earth should I make? I thought about the list of recipes that I knew (spaghetti) and the litany of recipes I have made but promptly forgotten or lost the recipe for and I came to think about a particular Barbeque Chicken Pizza which my eldest sister was very fond of. It’s her recipe. She and her roommate would make it with this special kind of sauce that they got in great big jars from Nebraska. She loved the pizza and raved about it whenever we got on the topic of recipes. So, once I got home, I decided to give her a call.

Boop, boop, boop, no answer. Normally I don’t leave messages. It’s a bad habit, I realize, but I know that they will be able to find me on their caller-id and I also hate calling people, but today I was feeling a little more confident and I left her a short message about how I would like to try her BBQ pizza. I hung up the phone and flipped on the boob-tube for a little moronic enjoyment punctuated by TV shows I hadn’t seen in forever and news stories I didn’t actually watch. I had almost forgotten about that whimsical idea of making the Barbeque Chicken Pizza when my phone began to ring. I looked around, was that me ringing? Why on earth would someone- Oh! I frantically pulled the flashing pulsating machine out of my pocket, jumping around as though the thing had suddenly turn to ice before slamming it to my ear, “Hello?”

It was my eldest sister. She had gotten my message, she said, and she would love to give me the recipes! She told me the whole recipe from crust to topping, everything down to the very last nuance. I was very appreciative. The pocket notebook piece of paper was positively dizzy with English characters by time we were finished, some of them legible but most of them not. I had gathered enough information, however, to begin my trek to the store. So I called my mom and my dad, leaving messages for both of them telling them about my adventure, got back into my automobile and hoped they got the message before they started cooking something else.

I pulled out of the driveway and flipped on my windshield wipers and klove before careening (scratch that. I don’t believe my dad would like to hear that I “careened” anywhere. I drove at a safe but suitably dramatic speed) out of the driveway and headed out to the store. I was almost to the store when suddenly, my pocket began loudly to make itself known to me, for the second time. Phone? My brain stammered. DRIVING! it hissed urgently in response to the elevating noise coming from my pants pocket. I pulled into a parking place and stopped. “Hello?”

“Hellooo, Katherino.” It was my mummsie. She, as it happens, was thinking about making pizza, too (“Great minds think alike”). She was making one with pesto and tomatoes, but wanted to tell me that she had already obtained the necessary crust and that I should go and gather my ingredients. I agreed and thanked her before hanging up. I pulled the car a little closer and ran through the rain into the supermarket. It is a pretty supermarket. It is very open, not like European supermarkets. Supermarkets in Europe are much like their countries, they are big enough, but they have a lot of streets and a lot of people in them. This supermarket was a little more like Cheyenne: populated, but open enough to prevent anyone from going Highlander on someone’s ass. (Excuse my Klingon.)

The first ingredient I spotted was the rotisserie chickens, rotating brightly in their Plexiglas case, just beyond the produce. I went up to figure out how to open it, but was dissuaded by the “Hot! Do not touch!” sign on it. I figured I would have to ask someone, and I didn’t want it to get cold, so I set about gathering the other ingredients before coming back. I skittered hither and thither with the renewed energy that my horoscope had promised me. Finally, without much ado, I returned to the chickens and, turning to the boy across the counter, asked, “Hello, can I get a chicken.” I pointed at the chickens illustratively.
He stared at me perplexed and then responded, “No, no, those chickens aren’t ready.” I pouted in consternation. “These chickens are ready, though!” he said, “those chickens won’t be ready for 20 minutes, but these chickens are ready.” “Oh!” I said brightly, “Then I’ll have one of those then.”

Seeing as I was carrying all of my ingredients, the fellow made an effort to help me out, shaking out a thin plastic produce bag while I used my free hand to choose and drop a chicken into it. He twisted it up for me and I thanked him profusely before heading to the checkout counter. I like to checkout with real people. Self-checkout is a speedy option, but I think it a little ego-centric don’t you? At least if you aren’t going on a date or something.

The horde of clerks did not notice me at first. I stood there and tried to project my presence into the back of their skulls combined as doing the more old fashion technique of “sticking you neck out and wobbling from side to side until you managed to catch someone’s eye” routine. I finally caught the attention of the only clerk who was working, who, in turn, managed to gain the interest of everyone else by default. The clerk nearest to me gathered my ingredients from my and flicked them over the scanner. I gave him my card supermarket card which, he was surprised to find, was attached to my keys, my hand-sanitizer and my wallet. He apologized and we laughed self-depreciatingly (me at my tendency to attach all my worldly possessions to one carabineer and he at the fact that he hadn’t guessed) Gathering my brown plastic bags (yes, you read it correctly brown PLASTIC bags) I skittered out the door.

It was not long before I was home. I dropped my ingredients, greeted my mother and then set about cutting up what I had bought. It is important to cut things up in a pizza. If you don’t make things bite-sized to begin with, then when you finally go to eat it, it ends up being a disastrous affair of trying to use your teeth for the purpose you should have used your knife for. My mother, with her strong white hands, massaged the dough and stretched it over the pizza dishes. Her pizza she created quickly, a gentle process of smoothing out the pesto and lavishing its surface with delicate low-cal topping. All while I furiously tried to chop my pepper and pull apart a chicken leg from my rotisserie chicken. I dripped and dropped my pizza together. Adding it together like a modern painter: scorning the licked surface and replacing them with licks of paint, creating a tactile surface or cheese, peppers, chicken and barbeque sauce. I had just finished when my mother lifted up my masterpiece. She had a chance to exclaim with an appreciative “Ooo” before it disappeared into the oven. Then, we waited.

It was a flurry of activity. My mother pulled out her pizza, my parents slicing off their own pieces and scurry off to eat them, my mother to eat while watching her shows, my father in the kitchen with me. I let my dog in and we roved around the kitchen as I cleaned up the mess that I had made with the whole endeavor. Finally, after a moment of rest, it was done, steaming with the rich tastes and smells that make some conspiracy theorist suspect that there’s something addictive about food. Personally, I have always thought there was something addictive about staying alive, particularly when it tastes good. I began to cut it up and dish out the slices, a momentary panic flooding over me as plates danced before me, begging me to fill them as I looking at delicious piece after piece slip away from my grasp. I scooped up a piece, went over to the table and devoured it, and another, and another until I started licking my fingers thinking, “The barbeque sauce bottle was right, this is finger-licking good barbeque sauce!” Then I took pictures and came down to right this entry.

So that is the end of my story. At least until the next time I make dinner.

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7 Comments.


That looks super tasty.

Most BBQ chicken pizza has chicken chunks that are WAY too big and too much bbq sauce that takes away from the tastiness of it.
» ikimashokie on 2007-08-07 10:40:29


Mmmmmmmmmm.
» ShaShaBoo on 2007-08-07 10:52:37

the picture looks yummy.
» renaye on 2007-08-07 11:32:47

ooo yummy ^^ nice tale on making bbq pizza XD
about the camp yea. it is eating me T-T
and the picture, is from fate/stay night and its acutally a figure ^^
» crz4manga on 2007-08-08 05:30:57

mmMmm looks quite delicious! I should like to make this pizza myself!
» Zanzibar on 2007-08-09 12:35:13

Good work!
You pizza looks delicious my dear! I wish I could have eaten it too! Yum yum! Love, Rachie Spachie.
» Rachie (71.229.249.30) on 2007-08-12 09:00:52

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» Jewell (77.91.195.16) on 2010-09-04 10:14:23

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