Last night, John and I had a home-cooked meal. Which shouldn't really be noteworthy, except a.) nothing happens to me anymore and that's the best I've got, and b.) it was bone-in gator.

Yep, that's bone-in alligator, which, incidentally, I marinated and cooked myself.

I must admit, I was a bit distracted during the slicing and prepping process. I couldn't help myself from wondering about the particular gator that had supplied the meat I was so efficiently mutilating. Was it farm-raised or wild? Had it been reared on a diet of politically correct cornmeal and some kind of fishy swamp hash? Or had it eaten rats, or bunnies, or even people? I shook my head in disgust and continued to cut the "tenderloin" into itty bitty pieces.

And then I marinated the pieces in kecap manis and a handful of still unknown spices, dredged the little nuggets in flour, and fried them to a crisp.

Tasted just like chicken, with less calories. Finger lickin' good... if you don't think about it too much.

Hah. Gotta love that Chinatown.