The Chicken

My mom has a thing about chicken. Poultry in general, actually. If it’s slimy or smells funny, she automatically assumes it has salmonella, listeria or some other kind of food-borne bacteria. This is precisely why each poultry-containing meal she has ever prepared has been cooked to within a millimeter of burnt to a crisp. She is absolutely terrified of someone contracting food poisoning from a meal she’s cooked.

One day, I came out of my bedroom and found my parents arguing in the kitchen.

Jo: Harry, that chicken smells. You’re not going to cook that chicken.

Harry: Jo, the chicken is fine. You’re overreacting.

Jo: Harry – I swear, I’m taking that chicken back.

Harry: It’s fine. [continues to wash chicken]

Jo: I’m not allowing that chicken to be served.

Me: What’s going on?

Jo: The chicken smells funny.

Harry: The chicken is fine. [puts 12 or so chicken legs in an oven pan.]

Me: [shrugs, goes back in bedroom]

Jo: Harry – so help me God, you cook that chicken and I’m throwing it out.

Harry: You’re not gonna throw out perfectly good food.

Jo: [moves to grab the pan away from Harry before he can put it in the oven.]

Harry: Jo…

Overcome by her potential food-poisoning sixth sense, Jo grabs the pan away and empties the contents on Harry’s head. She immediately regrets this decision.

Harry: What…the… Jo!

Jo moves to make a quick exit, only to be hit in the back with several wayward chicken legs. She runs to my bedroom and comes in and closes door behind her. Overcome with laughter, she tries to explain what transpired after my exit stage left.

Harry comes in the room. Jo’s got some explaining to do.

Jo: [laughing] All right. All right! I didn’t mean it!

Harry: I’m cooking that chicken! [returns to kitchen.]

Jo: Go ahead – no one’s gonna eat it.

Harry: I’LL EAT IT.

And he did. As did I. It wasn’t bad.