I sent the kids to the grocery store while I sat in the car in the parking lot and contemplated my life.
Well, it was less life-contemplative and more I’m-so-glad-I’m-not-grocery-shopping, but it was just as relaxing in a Zen, wouldn’t Gandhi be embarrassed kind of way.
On the grocery list was chicken. I suppose I could have been more specific. Legs, breasts, parts, rotisserie. I should have been more specific because in my freezer as I type and as you read are two whole birds I have no idea how to prepare. Yes, I have a roasting pan. I even have a convection oven “seasoned” with about 2,000 previous meals and mishaps. I just, it’s just that when I said chicken, I kinda meant something I can throw in the oven for 45 minutes sprinkled with salt and pepper while joking around in my Twitter stream.
One of these chickens will require Internet research and the other will require a trip to my mother’s with a partially defrosted bird in the backseat. My mother, once she hit her forties, developed all kinds of life-threatening food allergies, many of which involve the spices needed to properly prepare Miss Whole Chicken The Kids Bought. My mother will throw on some salt and some gluten-free nonsense then pop it in her much-fancier-than-mine convection oven—hopefully while I’m borrowing her wi-fi and joking around in my Twitter stream—then declare it good. And it will be. Her house is way cleaner than mine and her furniture doesn’t harbor adolescent dust mites and dog hair. I’m predicting a nice soy-free nap will take place.
The chicken is dead. Long live the chicken.
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