Thank God for Mrs. H

My in-laws are in town for a week and we had them over tonight to our apartment here in hot Santa Monica, where the temperature doesn't dip after the sun goes down and air conditioning is something you get when you walk into The Gap.

After a long day of work, I returned to find my son running around wildly with some sort of dried food on his shirt, my wife twirling her hair and S & R standing around looking for entertainment and some food.

So I did the best thing any American, whipped husband whose parents live in the same city and whose in-laws live across the country and only visit once every three moths would do -- I cooked.

When I was a teenager, one of my favorite places to hang out (other than at the skateboard park) was the Hallers. I would head up with my best friend E, play some tunes, listen to him get in a fight with his younger bro and then sit down for some chicken that defied explanation. I mean, this stuff was like nectar.

After many years of lost contact, our paths crossed again, and I asked her for the recipe. I've looked forward to the day I could make the chicken and relive the flavors of my youth.

Well, my friends, that day came tonight, and boy am I a better man for it. That lucious, slow cooked lemon sauce melted away any tensions I had about a small space seeming even smaller and summer heat seeming even hotter. (The bottle of wine may have helped a weensy bit as well.)

Anyway, thank you Gi. You don't know how happy you've made me. Now what am I going to eat tomorrow?