This is twice now.
It started a month ago. The first bout was more annoying than debilitating: headachey, weak, not sleeping well. In other words, and let’s be honest, sick enough to whine but not really compromised enough to call in to work.
Unfortunately, this proved to be nothing more than the… forgive the term… dry run.
What seemed like low-grade nausea by last Friday Morning turned into excruciating stomach pain by the evening, and I spent the next five days basically tethered to my oubliette. I couldn’t sleep, could barely eat, and I spent a couple of long afternoons drafting tentative agreements with whatever foul deity was in a position to relieve my agony in exchange for my soul.
But you know what I can’t stand, even more than being sick?
Using my chicken broth. Especially for something so pedestrian as actual chicken soup.
I am married to bacon.
Goetta is my friend, ham is sort of the Meat Next Door, BBQ and I go too far back for there to be passion, pork tenderloin and I exchange long glances when we pass each other by the water cooler, the Pork Belly Mac and Cheese at Mayberry is on my Laminated Celebrity Card, and pork hocks and I have an understanding.
Chorizo is what calls me at 2 in the morning.
So Poultry and I have reached an understanding over the years.
If a loaf of homemade bread is the culinary sacrament that gives meaning to my Sunday afternoon, a roast chicken represents the final official act of my weekend. It carries significance far beyond the kitchen or the table, with powerful, if obtuse, associations that always resonate with me as I cook. Like with the laundry that I always have to have done before I start dinner, or the dishes that I have just enough time to wash before the little guy comes out of the oven, or the abundant leftovers that will save me from having to make much effort to prepare lunch.
All of this bodes well for the upcoming week, one in which my socks match, my lunches are taken care of, and the kitchen sink can hold itself together for a couple of days.
Not to mention the fact that I can sit down with a plate of roasted chicken, good potatoes, a salad, a slice (or two) of bread, maybe with some homemade saffron mayo if I’m feeling especially saucy, and a glass of obscenely sweet iced tea with the store bought ice I love chewing so much.
I might have to shave my head Monday night.
There are three things in this world pretty much guaranteed to make me laugh out loud.
Forgive me while I reminisce a bit.