Waiting on Chicken

I've never been much of a cook. Grove City didn't allow us to be grown-ups and live in apartments where we had access to such luxuries as ovens, stoves, large refrigerators, etc., so I didn't really get the chance to hone my skills during my college years. Most people like to joke about how they can't cook and say that the only thing they can make is a TV dinner. For me, that was basically true, and I was okay with it. On breaks, my diet consisted mainly of Stouffer's stuffed pepper TV dinners, and macaroni (pasta, to those of you who might think I mean macaroni and cheese). Now that I have a 135 pound husband to fatten up, cooking has become a part of my daily life, but I'm still not that great at it, nor do I understand it. I can follow a recipe and usually have it turn out alright, but there is absolutely no ad-libbing or room for creativity at all. If Betty Crocker demands 1 1/4 cups of milk, then 1 1/4 cups of milk she will get. And that's the way it is. Don't get me wrong -- I don't mind conforming to a master chef's ideal proportions. One thing that does bother me, though, is that meals never seem to cook as fast as they're supposed to. Right now, I'm waiting on chicken cacciatore, but after the 10 minutes of recommended simmering time, the chicken is still pale and slimy. Thus, the motto of the story is, Betty Crocker might know the difference between a dash and a pinch, but she sure as heck can't tell time.