I used to love chicken. So much so that once, at the Fire Department’s chicken barbecue, I dressed up in a chicken costume and carried a “protest” sign that said: “Chickens are people, too!”
It was supposed to be a joke, but a couple of firefighters didn’t get it — or maybe they were just confused as it was a sweltering August day, and they’d been standing in chicken smoke all morning, so they were in no mood for clowning around.
And actually, the costume did make me look more like a Big Bird than a protesting chicken.
They came, they saw, they ate BBQ
Back then, people were a little jumpy about “protesters.” And I was a protesting chicken on the same day a busload of protesters from Brentwood arrived here to protest in front of Governor Cary’s house.
But when they found out he wasn’t here, he was in Albany; they decided not to waste the bus trip and go to the chicken barbecue instead. Some of them got off the bus carrying their signs, which created a bit of a ruckus in the long ticket line.
After a brief discussion with one of the firemen, they agreed to leave their signs inside the bus. They may have been genuinely devoted to their cause, but if you’re hungry enough, the smell of the firemen’s barbecued chicken trumps principles.
Chicken today, feathers tomorrow
I had a cutting board that said: “Chicken today, feathers tomorrow.” And there was a time when chicken was one of my favorite foods. So much so that our youngest son, obviously speaking for the rest of the family, complained about it.
“Can’t we eat something else? Why do we always have to have chicken?”
I, ever receptive to constructive criticism, said, “Because I like it and I’m the cook. You want something different; you be the cook!”
There were no takers.
To be fair, it was not all “my way or the highway.” After that incident, I acquiesced and offered other choices.
“Anyone for sauerkraut? Nope. Okay. Chicken it is.”
Over the years, I’d perfected various chicken dishes, from soups and chicken Kiev to nuggets and cordon bleu. And, not to brag, but I am also a chef who adheres to the “cook once, eat twice” philosophy.
An online group of us actually shares our stories — people who make a meatloaf or lasagna stretch over two days, a stew that lasts for five. I was going for a record when I got six days out of a hefty Perdue oven roaster.
I could have gotten seven, but my husband, who normally eats whatever I put in front of him, came into the kitchen while I was trying to whip up a chicken hash.
“How does this look?” I asked as he peered over my shoulder.
“Like grounds for divorce,” he answered.
I threw it out and saved the marriage.
If it ain’t broke
One of my favorite chicken dishes required thin chicken cutlets. Of course, one could buy them already thin, which is convenient though pricier.
But if they are already thin, they don’t need pounding, which for me, has always been extremely therapeutic. I even have a special mallet, but sometimes I’d use my hand and slap my troubles away.
I liked that part of the process, so I don’t know why I listened to the Happy Kitchen Lady’s tip about a better way to flatten chicken cutlets.
“Easier than driving a car!” she said, “And it’s just three simple steps!”
- Step 1. Place the chicken in a plastic bag
- Step 2. Place the bag behind the rear tire of your car
- Step 3. Back up
Voila! Beautifully flattened cutlets in seconds.
Ya think?
NO! Apparently, the Happy Kitchen Tip Lady drove a lightweight, compact car. I drove a Grand Cherokee. Do you know what happens when you back over a plastic bag of chicken cutlets with an SUV tire?
Let me save you a pound of chicken and 30 hours of chicken plucking. The plastic bag was empty. I crawled alongside our driveway, trying to find the chicken when my husband came out, and I explained that I was looking for my flattened cutlets.
He spotted the chicken first. There it was, shredded into hundreds of pieces, splatted against the cedar shingles on the side of the house. That chicken shot out of the bag like from a cannon.
I plucked and pulled and scraped off as much as I could, but threads of chicken were embedded into the shingles. A power washer got most of what I couldn’t pick out. But for a long time, when the sun hit that side of the house, we’d get a whiff of something indescribably awful.
Even now, on hot, muggy afternoons, that chicken stench lingers.
On those days, we eat sauerkraut.
