Heath rolled his neck and began preparing fried chicken bites. There were plenty of ways to make them. The simplest and most foolproof method was naturally to cut up some chicken, coat it in egg yolk and breadcrumbs, and toss it into hot oil, but that kind of fried chicken already existed in this world.
Heath intended to make a different kind, one that required the chicken to be crisp outside and tender inside, preferably juicy. The juicier the chicken, the better it would taste. Using breadcrumbs was actually an inferior approach. Heath believed good fried chicken bites needed neither breadcrumbs nor starch; controlling the oil temperature alone could produce an effect similar to breadcrumbs.
"Is this the fried chicken you're planning to make?" Cynthia had come over at some point, startling Heath so badly that he shuddered and nearly brought the cleaver down on his hand. Fortunately, his years as a chef made him instinctively pull his hand back, sparing him a bloody mishap first thing in the morning.
"Miss Cynthia? What brings you here so early?" Heath looked up at her. Cynthia was still wearing yesterday's hoodie, but this time she also wore a baseball cap. Her golden hair was tied in a high ponytail that poked out through the back of the cap. Anyone who didn't know better might have thought she was learning to play tennis.
"If I didn't get up early, how could I make a legitimate escape?" Cynthia said with complete confidence. Heath's mouth twitched. This Cynthia really was somewhat different from the Cynthia he remembered.
"This is the fried chicken I'm making. You can look forward to it." Heath smiled, then put the chicken in a bowl, turned, and began massaging it. He needed to work the marinade into the chicken this way.