Chicken Chili: onions, olive oil, ground chicken, diced tomato sauce, black beans, chili powder. That was all on hand at the time. I spurt a splash of olive oil in the pan sitting on medium heat, and began dicing up the onion. The boiling sound began to creep louder and louder, and soon enough I tossed the diced onion in the pan to sauté. Onion is the most critical ingredient–in any recipe for that matter.
As I’m about to turn on some music to compliment this cooking creation, my phone begins to throb: It’s Ryan, my old roommate from college. We haven’t really chatted in a month or two, but it always picks up naturally–outlandish stories created by the meeting of two minds. There’s a creativity spark whenever we get together, something I honestly haven’t experienced with anyone else. I’m pan-frying the chicken, at this point, letting the fat of the meat boil off.
We’re dreamers; our stories typically depict us leading through life in a prominent but ludicrous fashion. Our heads have always been drifting in the clouds, which would take the edge off for what reality really is. Ryan was working at a restaurant recently, but now is about to start an assistant teaching gig at an elementary school. From his tone, wasn’t thrilled but was unable to seize a job in his major’s field, geo mapping.
The chicken was browning, gradually, next step was to drain the beans and open the tomato sauce. “One day they’ll know.”–a typical phased declared between us. We’re vain, but also introverted. We see life for what it is, but fantasize to carry on. We sulk, but also laugh. It’s a constant swing that propels us back and forth between what is and a daydream.
I drenched the now, bits of chicken with a low sodium chili powder and poured in the rest of the ingredients. Stirred and blended it all together, providing an appetizing look. I spun the heat knob down to low and let the pot of goodness sit: it would be ready in twenty minutes. Only if everything else would take that long.