Free Fifty Shades of Chicken: A Parody in a Cookbook by F.L. Fowler

toasted hazelnuts or almonds
    1   Using a mortar and pestle, or the flat side of a knife, crush the coriander seeds and put them into a bowl.
    2   Using the side of a rolling pin, gently pound the breasts until they submit, flattening them ¼ inch thick. Put the chicken into the bowl with the coriander and add the salt, orange zest, pepper, and nutmeg and toss to coat. Let marinate in the fridge for at least an hour, or better, up to 6 hours.
    3   Melt 1½ tablespoons of the butter in a very large skillet over medium-high heat and let it simmer until it turns golden brown and starts to smell nutty. Add the chicken in batches and cook until golden on both sides, about 3 minutes per side. Transfer the chicken to a platter and tent with foil to keep warm.
    4   Melt the remaining ½ tablespoon butter in the pan and add the nuts. Let them heat up and crisp until very fragrant, 1 to 2 minutes. Serve on top of the breasts.

Red Cheeks
    H e pulls two small red orbs from his jacket pocket.
    Holy shit! What are those for?
    “Apples,” he says. “I thought we might play with these tonight.”
    “While you cook me?” I’m shocked. They’re awfully big.
    My inner goddess looks up from her yoga magazine, google-eyed, and starts kegeling madly.
    He nods slowly, his eyes darkening. I’ve learned to be apprehensive when he brings me fruit.
    “Will you season me after?”
    “No.”
    For a second, I register a tiny stab of disappointment. He chuckles.
    “You want me to?”
    I hesitate. I just don’t know. What used to feel wrong now feels so right.
    “Well, tonight you might just have to beg me.”
    Oh my.
    “Do you want to play this game?” he continues, holding up the apples. “You can always take them out if it’s too much.”
    I consider my position. He looks so roguishly tempting—unkempt hair from recent cooking, dark eyes dancing with gastronomic thoughts, his lips raised in an amused smile.
    My inner goddess is already on her knees in supplication, still kegeling and ready to beg for forbidden fruit.
    “Yes.”
    It’s a relief, actually. Finally a pair ofred cheeks that aren’t mine.
    roasted chicken thighs with apples and cinnamon
    SERVES 4
    2 small red apples, cored and cut into 1-inch cubes
    1 pound boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut into 2-inch-wide pieces
    2 tablespoons vermouth
    2 tablespoons cold butter, cut into cubes
    2 garlic cloves, minced
    ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
    ½ teaspoon coarse kosher salt
    ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
    Crusty bread, for serving
    1   Preheat the oven to 425°F. Core the apples and cut into 1-inch cubes.
    2   On a large, rimmed baking sheet, toss together all the ingredients except the bread. Roast until the chicken is cooked through and the apples are softened, 20 to 25 minutes. Serve with the copious pan juices, with the crusty bread for dunking.

Pound Me Tender
    I t’s Mrs. Child, isn’t it?” I ask, horrified. On the cover of the cookbook is a woman of a certain age, wielding a huge mallet, gleefully about to bring it down on what appears to be a half-eaten chicken. Why can’t that crazy woman leave well enough alone?
    He closes his eyes for a moment.
    “It’s her,” he says as he opens them again. He’s glowering at me now. Uh-oh. I can’t stop now.
    “That culinary cougar warped your palate at such a tender age.” It’s because of her that I feel so imperfect, so dull. She set his standards too high for a mundane fowl. How can I ever measure up?
    “You don’t understand. She was an early inspiration, but that was long ago. I create my own preparations now.”
    Then why am I staring at her cookbook right now? I keep quiet, nearly shaking with despair. But I have so many questions waiting to burst out.
    “Fine, Miss Hen. Let’s cook without a recipe, shall we?” He shoves the cookbook to the side and lays me out on the butcher block. As always his fingertips find my softest, most delicate parts.
    “How do you want to be cooked?