Monday, October 03, 2005

PETA may have a point

My Mother-in-Law used to live with us. It was a trip and not all that fun, frankly. I think it was harder on her, but there were moments such as the one described below that were not so pleasant for me/us either. She passed into the Great Beyond earlier this year. I cried at her funeral. But I also cry during MasterCard commercials, so let’s not judge too hastily.

Earlier last year (2004) Reha and I are going to go to La Caille with another couple. (Valentine’s Day one day late) Nice dinner, right? La Caille is one them there places with the clothe napkins and tablecloths and no plastic sporks and Everything! The other folks are coming to our house to pick us up at 7. Reservations are for 7:30. Now, Reha had asked her Mom at around 4:30 or 5 what she thought she was going to do about dinner for her and the kids and if we needed to do anything, like run out and pick something up or order a pizza. Marji (Mother-in-Law) said, “Oh don’t worry about it, we’ll be fine,” or something like that. So at about 6:30 or so, she calls down (Reha’s doing her hair at this point, I think) and says, “I think we’ve decided to have fried chicken.” Like from KFC.

So Reha says, (and this is the part that kills me), “Would you like us to go get it?” So now this whole passive-aggressive thing is going on, “That would be great. But y’all need to get ready.” At this point Reha looks at me (I am of course completely dressed at this point, given my utter lack of an ability to be fashionably late) and I say, “OK, I’ll run get it.”

By this time it is 6:45.

So I grab a couple of kids to get them out of the way and scoot off to KFC for a whole mess o’ chicken. BUT, and this is the thing. Reha had sent our oldest and most responsible offspring (Carrie) upstairs to write down EXACTLY what Grandma wants from KFC. This is the child I bring with me, along with a younger brother to help keep an eye on the sacred list. The list says breasts (white meat only, of course), 6 corns on the cob, 1 cole slaw and 3 mashed potatoes and gravy. I still have it and treasure it. I’ve pressed it in my Book of Remembrance Scrapbook along with the rose bouttoneire from Junior Prom, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. Does the sacred list say ANYTHING about extra crispy or original? Nope. Not word one. So I, not even remembering that there is a distinction between the two (duh, yep, I’m THAT stupid sometimes), get original recipe.

Does Marji EVER eat original recipe? Nope, not in a million years. She’s an extra crispy gal from way back.

Oh, and as I am scooting out with children and list in tow at 6:45, the other couple pull up into our very crowded driveway (another story for another day). I say, “I’m getting chicken. I’m not running away! I’ll be back in a flash!”

Chicken is purchased in fairly massive quantities. Think family meal. Think thirty bucks worth of fried bird and accompanying side dishes. It arrives home and is unwrapped and severe disappoint is heard on the part of Marji. Actually, it is beyond disappointment; disgust is more like it. “I’m NOT eating that chicken!” but said with a tone that, had you only been listening and not been able to see the offending chicken, might have guessed from the sound that the chicken breast in question had mold in copious quantities growing on it, was glowing from having been dipped in radioactive sludge, or was dripping urine or some other noxious substance. There is also a tossing (with disgust) motion of the poor dead bird back into the container (one of those big striped buckets) associated with the utterance of the dreaded phrase, “I’m NOT eating that chicken.”

Was there anything really wrong with the chicken to warrant such outrage? No, the chicken was tasty and wholesome, it merely had the wrong consistency of crusty goodness. An offer was tendered (by Reha) to go (or have me go, more likely) and purchase more chicken of the non-offensive variety.

Enter the martyr, “No, I’ll be fine. I’d just make you late. I’m not too hungry anyway.” Which to me begs the question, why, in the name of all that is holy did we not just order a pizza and have the wonders of a modern delivery system take over and bring food to OUR HOUSE? Never mind that now we ARE late, ‘cause the KFC, while pretty close, is still 5-7 minutes away one way and there is the ordering, purchasing and returning of new, extra crispy fowl to take into account. I think it was about 7:20 or so when the unveiling of the foul fowl is happening. (Sorry, couldn’t resist the foul thing.)

But here is the real kicker. According to Reha, but this has yet to be verified in the wild, it is possible that Marji didn’t even like the crust too much. Again, there is speculation, internet rumor sites are buzzing, that she usually just tore the extra crispy skin off and just ate the succulent, tasty goodness inside. She might have just liked the way the extra crispy tastes on the inside better.

AAAAARRRRGGGGHHH.

So one of the high points of the evening, once we finally got to the fancy, schmancy La Caille, was when I ordered the chicken entrée and when it came I got to say, “I’m NOT eating that chicken!” and toss my fork down on the plate. Whee! That was fun. Also that part is untrue. I ordered the prime rib, which was good, no complaints, but I still said the line when it came and got a big laugh. ‘Cause sometimes the truth just isn’t funny enough.

So what is the lesson that we have all learned? Sometimes, even when you make every effort to exercise due diligence, failure is always looming. And, extra crispy. ALWAYS extra crispy.

Duh.

Jon scribbled this mess on 10/03/05 at 03:20 PM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post Rants Favorite Entries. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

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