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Carol Perkins: Chicken supper, literally

This episode is about the time the writer failed to tell her husband to take barbecued chicken out of oven in exactly 45 minutes, rather than telling him it would be done when she got home from play practice and rehearsal ran 30 minutes late.
The next earlier Carol Perkins column: Carol Perkins: Wrinkles no more

By Carol Perkins

There are people who take what a person says literally and those who can figure out what is literal and what isn't. My husband is a literal man. So, when I tell him to pick me up somewhere "around ten" he wants me to be more precise. "Ten or five 'til or when?" I have to give him an exact time.



This story is about a time when I should have been more specific. I am referring to my husband and a pan of chicken.

I was at play practice and called home to ask Guy to start our dinner. "Would you take the strips of chicken from the bowl in the refrigerator (where they had been swimming in a barbeque marinate for half a day), put them into a pan, and cook on 375 for about forty five minutes, which is when I should be home?"

"Which pan?"

"The long one in the drawer beneath the oven."

"Is it the only long one? Am I going to have to sift though pans to find it?"

He is not one who can find things easily. I have come to understand why he keeps all his things in their place. If he didn't, he'd never find them.

"JUST PICK A PAN!"

Practice ran about thirty minutes longer than I had expected, so I assumed Guy had eaten without me, knowing he would have been hungry by then. When I opened the door, he was waiting.

"I just took the chicken out. You said that it should be done when you got home so I left it in the oven but then decided that maybe I should take it out. One thing for sure-it's well done."

My mind was wondering why in the world he would have left the chicken in the oven for an hour and a half. My mouth did not open to ask.

"Well, I believe they're done!" I replied as I followed the heavy scent of something in the kitchen that was just short of a fire. As I reached the long pan sitting on top of the stove, I don't think I have ever seen such a sight.

A black crust, which glued them to the bottom of the pan, blanketed the pieces of chicken. Only by force was I able to release them, one by one, pulling the charred bottom with each piece. I examined a piece to see if I wanted to eat it or not.

By then he was getting a little testy. "I did what you said. You said they would be ready when you got home and they are READY."

I stuck my fork into one of the little shriveled pieces and pulled off a bite. "Well, it really doesn't taste bad at all," I lied. I was beginning to feel sorry for him because he really knows nothing about chicken or for that matter, cooking. He makes two things: Jell-O and scrambled eggs. At least he had made an effort.

I then divided the pieces between us. It is amazing what a heavy dose of sauce-any kind of sauce-can do for over-cooked chicken.

After dinner, as we were cleaning up, Guy picked up the pan and said, "What do you want to do about this pan?" I had used that pan for many years. It had held one-layered cakes, roasts, lasagna, and casseroles. This was a parting of great sorrow. "Toss it in the garbage can."

Of course, this episode was my fault because I didn't tell him to take the chicken out after forty-five minutes. He assured me that he was told to leave it until I came home.

I gave him a look that said, "Where was your common sense?"

This is a man who must have a grocery list when I send him to "pick up a few things" and before going analyzes the list to make sure he understands exactly what to get.

"What size block of cheese? How much milk." Literally.


This story was posted on 2012-08-13 03:55:59
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