Doesn't that look good? Toasted pasta, golden brown and yet still slippery in the mouth. Deeply infused rice, fragrant with chicken and herbs.
Naturally, it's a pilaf.
But it came from a box labeled Rice-A-Roni.
Seriously. Laugh me out of blogdom now.
The weather here has not been cooperating lately. During a particularly wet sludge through what I thought was supposed to be summer, I collapsed into my needy, sickbed ways. Almost.
When I'm really sick, I like a can of chicken and noodle soup.
This time, though, I felt hearty enough for not-soup. But it still needed to be noodley, chickeny, kinda MSG-y.
Oh, just kill me now. I haven't had Rice-A-Roni in decades. I knew, though, it was the remedy, the elixir. Just this once.
Cranky dashed down to the market and grabbed a couple of boxes. He also bought the makings of a chicken sandwich for himself.
I cooked the Roni while he assembled his own lunch. He kept offering me bits of chicken, but NO, it needs to be pure, in situ, as is.
He ate, and I ate. Finally, he accepted a nibble of my pilaf, and he (secretly) liked it. A lot.
I know this, because the very next day he heated up the leftover Roni and shared a plate of it with me.
And now he is out there, buying more boxes of the stuff.