I found this in my spice cabinet yesterday.
I thought it was bread crumbs. I needed bread crumbs and so I decided that these were bread crumbs. I went so far as to slice the raw chicken and dip it in egg, as if this bold act of poultry prep could will this to be bread crumbs.
Not bread crumbs.
“So what is it?”, you ask.
Upon opening, sniffing, and ruling out anything remotely bread-related, I would have to say “I have no idea”.
It appears to be some sort of spice mixture. Yes, most definitely an elaborate spice mixture, with many, many different types of spices, mixed together for a purpose.
What that purpose is, I couldn’t say.
All I can say is that at some point Past Me took the time to painstakingly mix together approximately 74 different spices and was so certain that Future Me would remember why, that Past Me didn’t bother labeling it. And now Present Me is mystified.
Dry rub? Meatloaf blend? Cajun? Filipino seasoning lesson from my mother-in-law? Herbes de Provence? Science project? Incense? Exfoliant? Laxative tea? Something to be rolled in papers and smoked?
Oh, how you mock me, 74-spices bag with your blank white space that screams “Contents:__________”!
You sit on my countertop, sit in judgment, self-righteously and silently speaking to me of the myriad of unmarked, frost-defaced, plastic-wrapped lumps of God-knows-what in my freezer and Voldemortian They That Should Not Be Opened tupperware containers of unidentifiable foodstuffs in my refrigerator.
You whisper in my brain-ear, “Why do you always think you’ll remember things when history has shown time and time again that you remember no things?” And when I protest, “But I do remember things, it’s just the things that I remember are not why I made a 74-spice blend or how to fold a fitted sheet, it’s other things like all eight verses of “Senor Don Gato” from 3rd grade music class”, you roll your spicy eyes and remind me that knowing all eight verses of “Senor Don Gato” has no purpose in adult life, while knowing how to sniff an unidentified plastic baggie and immediately being able to adjust dinner plans from “Breaded Chicken” to “74-Spice Chicken” would be a much more marketable skill.
And so, as I grill bland poultry and tearfully hum to myself, “Oh, Senor Don Gato was a cat, on a high red roof Don Gato sat...”, you shall return to your perch in my spice cabinet, because I’m sure that one day, one of my lady friends who have not taken up precious real estate in their heads with Hispanic cat ditties will be able to sniff you and shout “Tandoori!” or “Garam Masala”! And on that day I shall grab a Sharpie and name you eternally, and my nightmare will be over.
In the meantime, I need to ask my husband if we’ve ever purchased a side of hog, because that one lump in the freezer looks a lot like a snout.