Fifty Shades of Chicken

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How have I gotten myself into this? I glance around the spotless, meticulously organized kitchen: trussing twine, skewers, mallets—is that a cleaver? Holy crap.

I don’t even fit in. I share a shelf in the fridge with a ham so enormous I have to huddle up against the door, even though it’s a double-wide Sub-Zero. The other shelves are stuffed with bags of leafy greens, neatly wrapped paper parcels of what might be fish or fancy cheese, and uniform rows of carefully labeled condiment jars. Down in a crisper all by itself is a radish, aloof and flaunting its freshness. Then there’s me, mundane, scrawny, and shrink-wrapped.

I’m closest with the enormous ham, even though she’s so much cooler than I am. She hogs the shelf, but she’s my nearest, dearest friend. She’s piquant, smoky, salty, pigheaded, bodacious, and always seems to know what’s cooking. She’ll make an exceptional holiday dinner.

SUDDENLY THE FRIDGE DOOR I’m resting on swings open, and I find myself rolling off the shelf and falling toward the kitchen floor. Crap. My plastic wrapper bursts as I land, and my giblet bag slides halfway out. Double crap. Damn my cheap packaging.

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