We get a lot of letters sent to us here at FHM. We get pictures of you and your mates standing outside a genitalia-named restaurant in Asia. We get endless desperate pleadings for Keeley Hazell’s digits. Sometimes, we get handwritten letters, with calligraphy resembling that of a shivering lunatic. We open those ones with care. But it always ends well. Normally with a picture of a lighthouse, drawn on the back of a Ritalin prescription.
We absolutely love getting your letters, and we’ll always do our best to help you out with whatever you need. Like Jake Milton from Shropshire, for example, who sent us this:
Loved the ‘New rules of weight loss’ in the Paris issue, particularly as I’m desperately trying to shift some festive timber. Just wondered if you could give me some ideas of healthy and tasty stuff I can rustle up in advance and take to work for lunch? The office canteen is the kind of lamb and custard place that would give Jamie Oliver nightmares, you see, and I’m not going to drive into town just to queue up for a meal deal. Help a brother out, yeah?
It’s a familiar dilemma, make no mistake. Fortunately for you, Jake, help is at hand. We’ve enlisted good pal and kitchen sorcerer Susie Verrill to help. Susie, aka CheFHM (follow her on Twitter), cut her culinary teeth cooking for homeless people in Kent, which we think is pretty ace.
STICKY LEMON AND HONEY CHICKEN WITH ROCKET
It’s Sunday. You’re hungover. You’d rather key your own car than prepare lunch to take into work with you tomorrow. But you promised yourself. You turned over a new leaf. You made a New Year pledge to your long-suffering gut that you’d stop forcefeeding it 41p packets of noodles that make your digestive system wonder when you moved to the sort of neighbourhood they feature on black and white Comic Relief montages with a Coldplay backing track. You can do better. You’re a modern man. The kitchen is your playground. Sure, today you’re a modern man ruined by Jäger and the playground is looking at you like a daunting assault course, but WE CAN DO THIS.
You will need:
Pre-heat the oven to 180 degrees/gas mark 4). Do it before you prep the chicken. Do it now. NOW.
Grate the lemon's skin into a bowl. Then slice the lemon in half and, using the small amount of energy you have, squeeze the juice out. Put the lemon carcass to one side (we'll use it again later).
Add three tablespoons of olive oil and two tablespoons of honey. Do it in that order, or you’ll end up getting honey everywhere, work yourself into a sticky tantrum and essentially want to give up and go back to your sofa-pit of doom.
Whack in a few shakes of cajun spices, a sprig of rosemary, a pinch of black pepper and a pinch of salt. It should look like this (see photo below). A little like that liquidy mess you vommed up earlier (except this recipe has no carrot). Stir.
Pop your chicken breasts in the bowl. Rub the sticky mixture all over them. Imagining you're massaging breasts is optional, but useful. Be gentle, but get it all covered.
Dig out a baking tray from one of the cupboards you never open. Put either baking foil or brown baking paper on it (it'll save on washing up), and place the chicken breasts on it. Here, you can have a play around with the ingredients. I prefer to add a bit more honey as a glaze, along with some cajun spices. You might prefer more lemon, more pepper, etc. Have a little play around, whack on some glasses and pretend you're Heston Blumenthal — whatever tickles your pickle.
Whack it in the oven, and spend the next 35 minutes desperately untagging photos from last night. It's a sad moment when you realise not only that it's a massive error to wear grey in a hot club, but also that you sweat from your moob crease.
Chicken’s ready. Let it cool for a few minutes, then slice into handy chunks. Check there's no pink bits in the middle. Get a Peppa Pig lunchbox/ice cream tub/anything you can take into work and dump in a few handfuls of rocket. Place your chicken on top, add a little more pepper and a drizzle of lemon and mayonnaise.
Pop it in the fridge and voila: lunch is prepared. Just remember to get it out in the morning so you’re not legging it back to your flat at 8:50am to the tune of ‘shit-shit-shit’.
Want CheFHM to help YOU out? Just email your cooking dilemma HERE with the subject 'FOOD ME', and she'll rustle you up something a-mayyyyyyyyyy-ZING.