i know, i know. this is not how it’s supposed to happen.
If you knew the things I do to chickens, well, all poultry, you’d understand my hesitation and limitations.
I got shamed early. My mother caught me and chided me. I stopped and vowed to never bring home a whole bird again. Since I only eat the breast anyway, I thought I would be safe.
Then, early last summer, I kept reading about this chicken with milk in a pot. Jamie. Yeah. Fine. I bought a whole chicken. Brought it home. And it happened. Again.
I tried to get past it. The chicken cooked up alright and fell off the bone. But, with my actions weighing heavy on my heart, I couldn’t really enjoy myself. I left it out overnight. Threw the whole thing away the next day.
I gave it up for the summer.* I couldn’t forget what I’d done. But, I got interrogated. Why? Why? Why? No chicken, really? I had to try to find plausible reasons to defend the indefensible. Because, hello, I eat bacon.
I was strong. All fall, I think I may have had one piece of fried chicken breast from Von’s. Cause it makes me feel Goooouuuhhhhhddddd. (♥: Will you ever let that Halle/Billy Bob moment go?) Nope.
Then, Thanksgiving came to town. Excited and feeling festive, I had one problem. Poultry. If and how became concerns. Because I was rolling solo dolo, turkey, too much. Turkey breast, still too much. Chicken, I didn’t think I could trust myself.
Options, I needed more. I thought getting fried chicken was kinda wrong. It was so un-Harvest Celebration-y. I’d never bought rotisserie chicken from the grocery store. Then it called to me from under the heat lamps. Two days before the big day, I couldn’t leave it to chance. I had to have a pre-dinner tasting. Hello, exclamation point eating!
Yes. I liked it. Lots. I picked over pieces that I, normally, sneered at. What to do with the bones? What to do with…ahhh. Throw it in a pot. Make some stock.** EASY. I tossed in some celery bits left over from the dressing. Covered with water. Let it simmer. Ding, ding, ding!!!! We have a winner.
Look, I hope you’ll understand. I guess it should be made from a bird that I actually cooked, but at least I’m not wasting the bones. That’s good, right? I know some would say just don’t eat chicken. That’s just not going to happen. I won’t lie.
Oh, you want to know why I can’t… Keep reading.
Hi, my name is Nikki and I dance with chickens. The sink is the club and we get down. It starts with the Twist. I think I can stop at anytime, but I never do. Sometimes, it’s a little Harlem Shake or a bit of Salsa. Once we start dancing, it makes me sad to dig for the dirty bits. Before you know it, I’m a sloppy sobbing mess trying to wash the insides.
I know I can’t not dance with the bird. So, I will either buy it already juicy dripping good or get the skinless, boneless frozen breast planks.
N♥
*Well, with the exception of one family gathering. You try turning down food around those women.
** It really was good. I’ve used it in a bunch of things. Most notably some killer gravy.
Okay… what did you think of the chicken in milk? I wasn’t feeling it. I forget, was it sage in the broth? Or bay leaf? Whatever, honestly. It wasn’t my thing, and I will never feel the same about Jamie ever again…
*tear*
*sniffle*
Carter, I eat chicken from a bag. You want me to talk bad about an Adorable Oliver recipe? …Okay. It wasn’t the best ever. There was no curse-worthy moment. Don’t know who to fault, Jamie, my cooking skills or the hype. And it wasn’t one of those experiences that I wanted to keep trying until it tasted right, either.
♥