I think it was Benjamin Franklin who said that there were only two things in life one could rely on--death and taxes. Well, another sure thing for most of us is food. Food accompanies every occasion in our lives. It greets us in the morning. It tucks us into bed at night, and sometimes it's with us in the wee hours when we sneak into the kitchen for an insomniac's treat. We celebrate all rites of passage with food--births, weddings... even death.

When I thought about writing this column, it occurred to me that so much of the strum und drag of my life could be discussed in food metaphors (hence "Soup Opera"). For those food lovers and cooks whose lives have been untouched by any emotional drama, this column will probably seem a bit too personal compared to traditional food advice. But I know that the majority of us have laughed and cried through life--problems with parents, children, divorce, and remarriage--all the stuff that drives us to drink... and eat. And that's the context in which I like to talk about food.

A few weeks ago, for example, a friend whom I'll call Kathy invited me over to have dinner with her and her

8-year-old daughter. She's a good cook and a great gal, so I was happy to accept her offer. Kathy is a single mother, and as it so happened, she first had to pick up her daughter from her ex-husband. The connection took longer than she planned (I'm not sure what interpersonal politics may have been involved), and she wound up getting home just minutes before I arrived.

She hadn't had time to shop and was pretty frazzled, I could see, so I told her to pour us both a glass of wine, sit and relax and that I'd be happy to do the cooking. She gratefully acquiesced, and I confess that I secretly and smugly looked forward to impressing her with the more impromptu side of my culinary bent.

I asked what she had planned to cook, and she told me there were some chicken breasts in the refrigerator. Perfect, I thought. Chicken is versatile and quick to prepare. My challenge, since she had not been able to shop for the rest of the meal, would be to dress up the chicken and create a few side dishes based on whatever she had at hand. I eagerly opened the fridge to survey the possibilities--and quickly realized that this was going to be more than simply a fun challenge. No, the state of her comestibles put me on notice that my entire reputation, indeed, my very sense of masculine self-worth, was in dire jeopardy.

Her fridge was a mess. Aside from the neat packages of recently bought chicken breasts, the shelves were crammed willy-nilly with half-eaten containers of this, desultory leftovers of that, and bags of things that, according to legend, should have been, and probably once were, green. I felt like General Eisenhower inspecting the beach at Omaha in the pre-dawn hours of D-Day. I had some grim work ahead of me.

My first thought was a recipe I had come to know as Estelle's Fried Chicken, though the reason for "Estelle" in the appellation had long been lost in the moth-eaten fabric of my memory. This dish is prepared by salting and peppering the chicken pieces and then sautéing them slowly in a frying pan while basting with lemon juice over a moderate heat until done. Simple, tasty, impressive. While Kathy sat contentedly out in the living room (her daughter was perusing the sundry wonders of the World Wide Web upstairs), I felt my ego returning to full-inflation as I called out in my suavest tone, "And where would you keep the lemon juice, love?"

"Oh, sorry, Len, I'm all out."

Curses! Think, lad, think! Diving back into the fridge, I cut a swathe through the Saran Wrap, tampered with the Tupperware, barged through the Baggies--and came upon a few wedges of peeled ruby red grapefruit. A bit more rifling and rummaging resulted in some frozen fresh cilantro. So be it! Estelle, whoever she was, be damned! Make way for--Ruby Red Chicken! Here's how I did it:

Cut two ½" slices into the thicker parts of the chicken (to allow the marinade to penetrate the flesh) and place them into the bowl. Mix and let them marinate for about 20 minutes.

Remove the chicken and shake off the excess marinade. Sauté the breasts in the Canola oil for about 5-8 minutes per side. Voila!

I was able to serve a leftover salad with a couple of baked potatoes on the side, and the night was a success. Her daughter managed to clean her plate before hustling back to her computer. And Kathy and I sat back in satisfaction and reflected on possibilities . . . in the kitchen and in life.