I have discovered the meaning of life. And no, it is not 42. It is not chocolate (Shocker, right?). It is Buttermilk.
That’s right, Buttermilk.
Butter to the Milk.
Om nom nom.
Let me back up and explain how I discovered this wickedly awesome fact.
Earlier this week I was craving chicken strips like they have at Popeyes and restaurants. I love super crispy chicken strips and I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to make them. I have tried everything.
I’ve double and triple battered them, I’ve used tons of egg, I’ve used no egg. I’ve baked, I’ve fried, I have tried everything. I was feeling hopeless about this entire endeavor and I decided that I would look at the Pioneer Woman’s website, with high hopes she would have a good chicken strip recipe.
She did. And it never occurred to me to use buttermilk.
I’m horrifically Midwestern, almost to a fault (We Midwesterners are perfect, I swear), and I hadn’t really discovered buttermilk until I came to the south, where it’s only sold in half gallon containers. And while Milk is rarely sold in gallons. Which confuses the hell out of me.
I had some buttermilk in the fridge that was about to go bad so I decided to take from her recipe. I soaked the chicken in buttermilk and hot sauce, and made a breading of just flour, tony’s seasoning, and a little bit of buttermilk. The batter ended up being really clumpy, which is supposed to happen. I threw the chicken in the batter and threw those bitches in the fryer.
Way better than a restaurants. Alex and I ate over five pounds of those bad boys.
Thank you Pioneer Woman. Thank you for being the Goddess of Cooking.
So, tell me internet. What do you think is the meaning of life?
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