unmarried. a blog
"Tell the truth about what it's like to be human."
- Cheryl Strayed
“You call serving chicken-in-a-bag cooking?”
My heart sank from the verbal dagger, but I refused to let it show. After grocery shopping singlehandedly on a bustling Saturday with two uninterested children in tow, which, by the way, should be deemed an Olympic sport, I had felt a small victory.
Until he came home.
“The chicken you are referring to is called a rotisserie.”
My tone was as matter-of-fact as my newfound perspective. “And,” I continued, “this rotisserie that I’m preparing to serve is an excellent source of protein that was cooked in a far better way than what you were raised on.”
My soon-to-be-ex knew I was referring to the fast food nuggets his mother fed him. Nevertheless, I looked to the bag and questioned my parenting.
Thankfully, my mind was quick to recognize what my brain unconsciously absorbed. As my fingers worked through the succulent meat of the breast, I placed the best, most juiciest pieces on my children’s plates. I fluffed and perked the strips beside the carrot sticks and cucumber slices to create a colorful lunch.
Then I turned to his plate.
In one quick motion, I flipped the chicken and went straight for the thighs. As I plucked through the dark bits, I chuckled madly. “Chicken in a bag? I’ll give you chicken-in-a-bag!” I pulled the legs apart, yanking aggressively, and selected even the purple parts to put on his plate; pieces I know make him cringe. It was so satisfying. When I got to the wishbone, I took great pride in cracking that sucker in two and fired it in the trash.
Then, I tossed a few carrots and a whole cucumber onto the dish. Let the f*cker cut it himself.
I turned to the now-empty bag and put his food in it.
“Lunch is ready!” I announced, waving a hand over the kitchen table.
The kiddos came running in and took their usual spots, digging in happily.
“What’s this?” he asked, dropping onto the chair, eyes fixed on the bag.