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March 11, 2006
Taste Test
Do Not Eat The Chicken.
I should have known when my mom so casually asked me to "smell the chicken". To me, chicken always has a slight whiff of funk so I'm probably not the best person to offer an opinion about whether a particular piece of raw meat has peaked.
I REALLY should have known when the chicken took so long to cook that three TV dinners were popped in the microwave and consumed by the other family members, leaving only me to carve a few slices of the finally-finished chicken onto my bowl of salad.
For a couple hours, all seemed right with the world. I had escaped the clasp of my desk for a few hours this afternoon to partake of a grassy knoll, where I lolled about listening to my iPod, dreamily reflecting on the clouds swirling overhead, and reading a book. Later in the day, Janie and I had gone for a bike ride, alternating between carefree--yet heartstopping--dashes into crosswalks and abrupt cease-pedals when a wandering goose got too close. Sitting down to a light meal of salad and chicken seemed like a gentle way to cap off the night.
I should have known.
