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For the first time in my young life, I made fried chicken. It was awesome.

I picked up some thin chicken filets and egg-beaters from the store, then waited until hunger became the family's position on any given topic. I pulled out my big frying pan, my go-to pan, a Calphalon sauté pan (whose dimensions I forget - let us just say it's pretty damn big, maybe four quarts, maybe six). I gently placed her in her rightful seat on the stove, the front-right burner, and then poured some canola oil in, filling the bottom to a bit more than a quarter-inch deep, then set the fire on high.

Next, while the oil was gettin' all kinds of hot, I quickly put some flour in a bowl, added some salt, pepper, onion powder, garlic powder, and oregano. In another bowl went maybe a cup of egg beaters. Then I rinsed a boneless chicken breast, popped it between two sheets of wax paper, and pounded the ever-loving crap out of it with a cooking hammer (really, a tenderizer, but hammer sounds more awesome). When the oil was hot (but not smoking-hot), I took the smooshed chicken, dredged it in the flower, then the egg, then flour a second time, then placed it gently in the hot oil. The frying commenced to seal the deal - All I had to do from then on was turn each boob breast once they got brown on the bottom. When they looked as yummy as I could stand it, I pulled 'em, dried 'em with paper towels, and gently, with utmost respect and dignity, made them go all-gone.

The whole process was beautiful, especially for my first time. And not for nothin', I was cooking without a recipe in front of me. I'd read a few, familiarized myself with the process, but then decided to do the actual cookery without a net. And it absolutely worked.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.