I’m working through the CIA Boot Camp book right now. That would a book about how to become a better chef, not about extracting information from high-value prisoners. Different CIA.
Last night I tried making the Chicken Provencal, which is mainly an exercise in sauteeing. You sautee the chicken breasts on each side for about 4 minutes each, then transfer the pan to a 350° oven for about ten minutes. I had something not quite right, because I had to leave the two breasts in the oven for about twenty minutes before they were cooked through. Then I removed the chicken from the pan and put it on a rack to sit for a few minutes while I started sauteeing garlic for the sauce.
I added the garlic to the pan, took firm hold of the handle and began stirring it. This was the bare metal handle that had just been in an oven for twenty minutes. I kept hold of the handle for about 1/4 of a second before my nerves informed me that there was something alarming going on in the flesh of my left palm, and that it would probably be a really good idea to find some very cold water immediately.
Those of you with young children reading along may wish to shield their eyes temporarily.
OW FUCK OW OW OW FUCK
Luckily, my nerves are speedy little guys and my brain got the message almost immediately. My brain carefully weighed the available stimuli, decided that the situation needed reconsideration, and sent a strong suggestion to the muscles of my left hand to disengage from the pan handle. The muscles, being team players and not yet cooked, agreed. A few minutes later I had a decent sauce in the pan and an ice bag in my hand.
The dish was excellent, though it did suffer slightly from being consumed one-handed.