Complicated Relationship

"I have a complicated relationship with chicken."

That's what I told the GF when we were walking around Costco the other day. We were looking at meat, and she asked if I wanted to get a rotiseree chicken for dinner like we had done the previous week. I declined. I've had enough chicken in recent days.

The rotisserie chickens are complex beasts. I can sit there with a fork and dig into one. After eating the skin of course. But after I've had enough, I'm done. And that happens quickly.

With many food items, I can keep enjoying until I'm full. Or my enjoyment of it gradually declines along with my hunger.

Chicken is different, though. Those rotissereed bundles of roasted goodness are great, until suddenly I'm had enough and thinking about another bite turns my face green. There's nothing gradual about it. That change happens in an instant and can sometimes take a while to reset.

So I like chicken until I hate it. And as I said to here when she asked if I wanted another chicken:

"I have a complicated relationship with chicken."

The GF cocked her head to the side and gave me that look that said, "Normal people don't say things like that." I see that look a lot. From a lot of people.

So I began to tell her my chicken story.

Growing up I was never a fan of chicken. I hated it. And it wasn't all in my head. My Mother likes to tell the story of how I refused to eat chicken so she gave me something different.

Poultry.

That plan worked pretty well until I looked up at her and said, "This poultry tastes a lot like chicken."

Throughout school I avoided chicken whenever possible. Turkey was fine. Awesome, even. But no chicken would cross my teeth.

I grew into those stupid birds, though, and in college began snacking on the critters a little bit. It started with fast food and diner chicken breast sandwiches. I moved on to include chicken strips on Caesar Salads. And of course Buffalo Wings. I'm a big fan of a nice bowl of wings. (Some of my favorite wings were from Harrison Hollow in Boise, ID -- the rich sauce makes my eyes tear from two tables away.)

During my senior year at Carroll College, I lived off campus and had to cook my own food cheap.

One day I found a big tray of small drumsticks at the grocery store. They were cheap and I figured I could make a bunch and have an awesome meal.

So I took them home, and, a few days later, threw them in the frying pan. After I plated them, I added plenty of salt and pepper (and probably some ketchup so there would be a vegetable on the plates) and started snacking.

They were okay. But after a few of them I began paying more attention. They had that same fowl smell I remembered as a little kid. They smelled a little too much like chicken.

And I began to think that these reddish juices probably should not be draining out. And that the flesh probably should not still be pink. I ate a couple more. Today with all the stories on proper chicken handling, I surprised I'm not dead.

I put the rest of the drumsticks back in the pan for a little more heat. I couldn't really fix it though.

I did the same thing a couple more times that year before giving up. Despite how cheap they were, the whole thing seemed a bit risky.

I still enjoy the occasional rotisserie chicken. I'm not much of a fan of the dark meat side of the birds, though. The gooey soft meat that screams, "Chicken!" is a bit much for me. The scents come back to me and I don't want to look at it too much. The chicken is great until suddenly it's awful.

There are more chicken anecdotes I could share, but, what can I say?

I have a complicated relationship with chicken.