Pesto Chicken Breasts Wrapped in Bacon
For When There’s No Time to Cook on Account of The Zombies™
You know the drill by now; we’ve all made it this far since the virus started to spread. If I have to explain it to you at this point, you’re dead already.
It’s sundown, and they’re coming. You race to board up that one window the kids insist on looking out during the day, and just as the last nail goes in, you realize you haven’t even thought about dinner. You’ve been so busy burying the dead that you just haven’t had time.
Luckily, you remember that you have
- 6 chicken breast halves
- 6-12 Tablespoons basil pesto (you can use a prepared jar, or make your own)
- 1/4 to 1/2 cup vegetable oil
- 1 cup shredded Parmesan cheese
- salt and pepper
- 6-12 slices of bacon
You preheat the oven to 400 degrees (200 Celsius, or 477.594 Kelvin). Your heart pounds hard as you race to work:
- You rinse the chicken breasts and lay them flat on a cutting board. Maybe you put some wax paper over the top, maybe you don’t. It’s up to you, and you’re a badass zombie killer, so I won’t tell you what to do.
- Then, you grab a rolling pin or baseball bat and pound the breasts nice and flat, maybe to 1/2” thickness.
- You spread the pesto sauce over each chicken breast, and add salt and pepper to taste. Then, you sprinkle the shredded cheese on top.
- Working quickly now - you can hear them shuffling up your driveway - you roll the chicken breasts and wrap a slice of bacon (or two) around each. You use toothpicks to secure the packages, making sure you don’t shove them accidentally into your eyes.
- You put the chicken into a baking dish, and then drizzle the vegetable oil over the breasts - not your breasts, there’s no time for that.
- Quickly, now! Bake the chicken for about 30 minutes; the chicken should read 160 degrees F (the body temperature of the walking dead outside your door now) when finished.
While the chicken is baking, you use the autoloading Remington Model 1100 Competition Synthetic to take off some zombie heads, watching as the blood and brains erupt and rain onto your front porch.
You enjoy the meal, savoring each bite as if it were your last.
Which it may be.