My Dog Stole My Perfectly Roasted Chicken From The Countertop
On humility, grace, and laughing at yourself
My idea of a fun weekend is choosing a recipe, grabbing coffee, then taking a romantic stroll down the grocery store aisles. Call me old or boring or plain or irrelevant or just plain weird, but…
Cooking reminds me of days spent in Granny’s kitchen. She’d turn up her nose at most of the dishes I cook and say I’m too big for my britches now.
She was happy with the staple meals of a poor family in Appalachia; soup beans, cornbread, bologna, hot dogs (though I don’t think there’s much difference), and anything you can dip in corn oil and flour.
She’d be ashamed that I can’t make good cornbread to save my life, I never get all the lumps out of mashed potatoes, and, worst of all, I cannot roast a crispy, moist chicken.
One weekend, I set out to change that.
This was the day.
I undressed the hairless thing. It shimmied right out of its plastic, body-con dress. The slippery little bastard. You better be worth it, I said out loud as I schlepped it around in the sink.
I finished mopping the inside of the sink with my naked houseguest and plopped her in a bowl — unaware it wouldn’t be the only time…
