this end up

Now that we have a house, I feel like I should start making more grownup things for dinner. I think of myself as a fairly good cook, but I fear meat that looks even a smidgen like the animal it came from. I can’t even eat meat that tastes too much like meat. You’ll often hear me say during meals, “I can’t eat this hamburger. It tastes like cow.” My issues mean that we eat plain and boring meat—like boneless, skinless chicken. This week when I was ordering my groceries online (still lazy and loving it), I browsed the category of whole chickens. I picked one that came without the mysterious bag of innards, and today, I am fearlessly roasting it.

I only cringed a little when I rinsed it and patted it dry. I seasoned it with butter, lemon, salt, and pepper, and stuck it in the oven breast side up because that’s what Betty (Crocker) said to do. I thought all was well. I took it out, let it rest, hacked some meat off but was a bit puzzled. I couldn’t find much white meat on what I thought were the breasts. I flipped the sucker over. That was more like it. I guess even though I have a set of my own, I couldn’t figure out which side of the bird had the breasts. Pretty sad.