And I Attacked It

It seems that about twice a year, Clara and I are out and about early enough in the day, with change in my pocket and no plans for lunch, that there are still rotisserie chickens for sale at the chicken store down the street, on our way back from downtown. Because who wants to carry an entire perfectly warm, roasted chicken all the way downtown and back--without eating it? Or is that even possible?

Not in my case.

As soon as Clara and I got home (and it became apparent that Clara did not want to take a nap immediately), we sat down and dug into that bird. Rather, I sat down and dug into the bird--Clara is still on her vegetarian kick.

And boy, did I dig in! I began with a knife and fork to cut some meat into dainty bites for Clara. When I realized she was not at all interested, I ditched the knife and fork, and forceably ripped off that poor chicken's left leg with my bare hands. Warm, seasoned, juicy, and salty . . . I couldn't get enough, so ripped off the left wing, devouring it. After that, I dug around with my bare hands, searching for any meat that was easily pulled from the bone--and as it was roasted to prefection, that included just about the entire chicken. That meat came free as easily as walnuts in a windstorm.

Fifteen glorious minutes later, I licked my fingers, realizing that I'd get just as much enjoyment out of the second half of that chicken tomorrow (and maybe Wednesday, too). This is why I only buy one of these twice a year. I can't make it a regular habit to consume half a chicken in one sitting.

While my body and my wallet thank me for my usual restraint, my taste buds were so very happy that today was Rotisserie Chicken Day.