Confession

My mother makes a mean Chinese chicken salad. It's so good in fact that "Mom's Chinese chicken salad," has, from time to time, graced surveys under the favorite food question. It's nearly next to ambrosia which, in high school we decided was a Butterfinger. (I'm happy to say my palate is a bit more sophisticated at this point. Although Butterfingers are quite delicious. And whatever Zeus snacks on up there on Mount Olympus, I'm 99.9 percent sure it's some sort of combination of peanut butter and chocolate). Mmmm. I digress.

Chinese chicken salad. I'm happy to report that up to this point in my life I've been fairly successful in my attempts to recreate my Mom's Hall-of-Famer recipes. I haven't tried all of them. She makes the best Swedish almond cake this side of The Fjords. I'm not going to touch that one. Why bother? If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? Not that her chicken salad is lacking. I just felt up to the task.

In preparation for a small gathering last Saturday, I spent Friday frying won tons and baking chicken in soy sauce. Thinking I was ahead of the game, I settled in to watch the Jazz defeat the Lakers. The air smelled of sesame oil and soy sauce, and Carlos Boozer was on a roll. Three hours (and two packages of won ton skins) later, I was finally finished. And that was just the beginning. Now for the confession: all-in-all, it took me nearly five hours to make that salad. Should I find comfort (or desolation) in the fact that it was devoured in less than 30 minutes? To add insult to serious injury, I don't even know if the Jazz won. I was too busy with my face in a frying pan to find out!