The ‘rents arrived, in a bluster and flurry of noise and activity last evening. 

The kids were wound up tightly, emotions taught and threatening to burst all day.  The oldest can verbalize her frustration pretty clearly and all too frequently: Where is Grandma? Why is she still at Auntie’s?  How much longer until she gets here?  The little guy is less articulate, can only ask when grandpa will get here.  The questions grew closer and closer together – at first, only once an hour, at the end of the day a tattooed burst of questions every couple of minutes.

When the grandparents finally arrived, the dam burst.  The kids were up well past their bedtimes, the oldest weepy because she was overwrought and unable to go to sleep.  I was up until midnite with the folks as well.

We’ve managed to coast through the first 24 hours, in spite of the resulting fatigue.

Maybe it’s the fatigue that made tonite’s chicken dinner a little more, ummm, special.  We’d been scuttling around the house with odd chores all morning, scrambled out to find plumbing materials for a project on which I’m putting my dad.  We were a little late getting back, picked up the kids, and a dull roar of noise and action ensued.  The kids were hungry the moment they walked into the house – I felt like I was throwing raw meat at alligators to keep them from gnawing on my legs.  Once I’d gotten them calmed down and lightly sated with a snack, I tackled dinner.

This morning I picked up a few groceries, including fixings for dinner.  We’ve not a single leftover in the house, let alone anything thawed from which I can prepare a kid-friendly-grandparent-pleasing meal.  This is in part because my husband and I have diametrically opposed shopping habits – I buy whatever’s depleted or in danger of running out in the inventory, he buys what’s on sale.  Only what’s on sale.  Period.  Obviously dinner tonight did not enter into the equation when he went shopping yesterday; either nothing was on sale when he went shopping or he wasn’t concerned because, hey, he’s on a business trip today and it was therefore not his problem.  I’m stewing, pouting about this a bit while I’m shopping, muttering sotto voce about my beloved DH…when I spot the perfect main course, beckoning to me from the meat case.  A chicken, the proportions of which I haven’t seen in one heckuva long time.  One mother of all chickens.  It’s stretched out on the plastic tray like a sunbathing Schwarzenegger on a small beach towel, reclining in all its plump, bulky, fattened glory.  Aaahhh, the answer to my query, something for the clan dinner and leftovers for another meal.  And maybe more.

In my hasted to prepare the chicken after fending off my kids, I take a few shortcuts.  I don’t tie back the wings and only skewer the legs into place with a wooden pick.  Yes, I’ve rinsed and seasoned this fat puppy after wrestling him into a roaster, gussied his keester with garlic, herbes de provence and tarragon, sea salt and pepper, thrust an onion up his backside.  My mom peeks over my shoulder, says Wow, that thing’s huge, it looks like a baby!  I shut the oven door on the chicken quickly, not relishing the vision of an anthropomorphized fowl one second longer.

Squash prepared, potatoes cooked, salad assembled, table set, mise en place for gravy, the timer goes off.  I open the oven, blinking from the steam and heat and pull out the roasting pan and chicken.

Still blinking, I see a golden brown, evenly crusted crispy skin, the scent is heavenly.

My vision clears and there, before me, is an incredibly pornographic interpretation of roasted chicken.  The damned beast, with legs like a Olympic cyclist, has broken the wood skewer daintily holding the legs together.  Completely splayed like a Hustler centerfold is this chicken from hell, presenting the onion to me, wings outspread as if to say, come and get it, bay-bee… 

My mom and I bust out laughing so hard I damned near dropped the roaster.  Oldest child, puzzled at the hilarity and not understanding the implied obscenity, pesters for an explanation.  I hustle to re-skewer the legs, and failing, I turn the chicken on its side away from view.

Dad doesn’t mention this odd presentation when he carves the bird a few minutes later.

It was delicious anyhow.  And there’s enough leftovers for dinner tomorrow.

10:36:24 PM    comment []