Chicken Nuggets

CHICKEN NUGGETS

Time: 1 hour

Servings: 25

📷

¾ cup gluten-free all-purpose baking flour

2 tablespoons cayenne pepper

2 teaspoons garlic salt

2 teaspoons smoked paprika

2 chicken thigh fillets

2 eggs

½ cup butter

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F. Cover a pan in aluminum foil and spray the foil with cooking spray.

Mix the flour, 1 tablespoon of cayenne pepper, 1 teaspoon of garlic salt and 1 teaspoon of paprika in a bowl.

Sprinkle 1 tablespoon spoon of cayenne pepper, ½ a teaspoon of garlic salt, and ½ a teaspoon of paprika onto the chicken. Cut the chicken into desired sizes, then add the rest of the cayenne pepper, garlic salt, and paprika onto the cut pieces.

Beat two eggs in a bowl (it doesn’t have to be perfectly beaten).

Dunk a piece of chicken in the egg bowl. Make sure it is covered in egg.

Roll the piece of chicken around in the dry mixture bowl until it is covered, then set it on the tray.

Melt the butter until it is completely liquid. Pour the melted butter over the chicken so that it is fully covered in butter.

Once all of the chicken pieces are prepared, stick them in the oven for 20-25 minutes. They are done when they are golden-brown.

Papa

My eyes bored into the television screen as my chin rested in the palm of my teeny hand. PBS Kids was the only kids’ channel offered, so I was forced to watch another episode of Clifford the Big Red Dog even though my wise eight-year-old brain was way above the stupid show. My nine-year-old sister must have had the same perspective because her glazed eyes were staring at the blank white wall rather than the television screen. Although, my five-year-old brother seemed to be enjoying it from across the kitchen table.

“Hello!” Grandma’s high-pitched voice screeched as her petite figure entered through the doorway, her blue eyes wide and her white teeth gleaming at the three of us.

“Hi grandma!” we responded in unison.

“Papa is going to take you to turd-eh-street,” her thick Persian accent informed us.

Turd-eh-street, which was my grandma’s pronunciation of Third Street, as in the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, was our favorite place to go with my grandpa because there were street performers and McDonald’s, which was really all we needed to be entertained. This pronunciation, which my two siblings and I knew was a result of our grandparents’ thick Persian accents, majorly impacted my other sister who would have been fifteen years old at the time. For almost eighteen years of her life, which means up until three years after this day, she thought that Third Street was called turd-eh-street. It wasn’t until she looked at a sign, after eighteen years of going to Third Street, that she realized its correct name. I still don’t know how none of us noticed that she would call it turd-eh-street with complete seriousness.

The three of us dashed out of the small kitchen and into the living room to put on our shoes. I leaned against one of the life-sized metal dolphins that sat on either side of the unused fireplace, the combination of the cold tiled floor and the cool metal exterior of the dolphin chilling my body.

As I shoved my small feet into my pink, pearl-covered sneakers with extra long glittery laces, Papa strolled into the living room in his usual tweed newsboys hat that covered his bald head, black knee high socks, a long plaid shirt, and a pair of baggy cargo shorts.

“Ready everybody?” his deep accented voice asked.

“Yeah!”

“Alright let’s go!”

We followed the short dark-skinned man out of the glossy wooden door and down the outdoor hallway leading to the rickety elevator that always faintly smelled of cigarettes. From there we walked towards Papa’s small silver Mercedes that sat next to his other red Mercedes and Grandma’s navy blue Mercedes. We drove out of the gloomy parking garage and down the sunny streets parallel to the bright blue ocean.

Turd-eh-street was comfortably inhabited today, rather than its usual large crowds. In fact, the small McDonald’s didn’t even have a line, which I had never experienced before. I ordered a Happy Meal of course, as did my brother and sister. We sat outside in cold metal chairs watching the people speed by with shopping bags or Starbucks coffee cups in their hands.

The shiny red box with the yellow smiley face stared at me as it sat on the skinny-legged table. The m-shaped handle was immediately ripped open, and I rummaged through the bag for the best part of any Happy Meal: the toy. My tiny hands grazed over a warm cardboard box that I assumed held my McNuggets, then greasy salt-covered fries, until it touched the thin plastic material of the bag that held my toy. Pulling it out of the box, I excitedly gleamed at a small plush dalmation with big blue eyes and a tiny red tongue hanging out of its smiling mouth. I tore the stretchy bag open and the little dog fell onto the table.

“Eat your food, then play,” Papa commanded.

I shyly put the puppy on my lap as I searched through my warm cardboard box and pulled out a smaller cardboard box of McNuggets. Squeezing a ketchup packet onto the side of the box, I looked up at my siblings. Hannah was the faster eater, so she was already halfway through her food, her chubby cheeks rapidly munching. Dalton’s equally chubby cheeks chomped next to her, ketchup all over his face and somehow in one of his eyebrows. I dipped the crispy nugget into the sweet red condiment, then popped it into my mouth. The combination of the sweet dipping sauce with the crispy, savory nugget was perfect.

“Thank you, Papa,” my full mouth exclaimed.

“Your welcome,” he smiled.