3256 days

The number of days since our marriage that has taken my wife to cook chicken fried steak for dinner.  Now this may sound like a sexist comment, but... woe unto you, chicken fried steak lovers, hungry husbands, Texans.  
Forsooth!  For ye goeth withouteth chicken fried steak for such an interminable age and gird your loins surely ye willest.

Anyway, my gal was born in Texas, Houston no less.  So at the very least I know I have 26 million kindhearted sympathizers out there.  It was a very nice chicken fried steak.  Served with sweet corn and other fixins.  The kids* thought so too.  Thank you dearest.

I feel the need to further explain myself, at the risk of spoiling the axiomatic truth that simply is the chicken fried steak; to all my UK friends, you see, chicken fried steak is high upon that pantheon of American comestibles which is both essential, adored, unhealthy and, by golly, pleasemayihaveanother!  It is in rare company with the green chili pork and black bean burrito, the New York style pizza (2 slices please), the plump and thick eggs benedict, and the fried oyster po-boy.  It is, quite simply, a cardinal offense to visit the US, or at least the South, and not have tried one.  You Germans and wiener schnitzel eaters out there, you know what I'm talking about.  We may have grown quite fond of our tea, biscuits, steak and ale pies (and Real Ale, for that matter), porridge and Marmite, but such fundamental truths as chicken fried steak are immutable.

* Charlie gets a mulligan.  He fell asleep at the dinner table after too much galumphing around today in the sunshine and going without a nap.  This saps his dinner appetite to the point of even skipping desert.  Another time son.  Hopefully soon.  And with biscuits.  And gravy.

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