We owned a Boston Bulldog named Frisky when I was a kid. We didn’t really own the dog because the animal did pretty much whatever it wanted. Feeding crayons
to Frisky ensured our yard had the most colorful dog shit in the neighborhood. Encouraging my younger brother to swallow rubber bands did not yield the same results. My father told everybody that something was wrong with me. Did you know if you squeeze Orajel on an ant trail the insects can’t feel their legs? Maybe my father was right.
Today at Wal-Mart I bought this contraption called the Beer Can Chicken Roaster. A co-worker suggested I should try it, and claimed it made the juiciest chicken in the world. Suggestions can be welcome events as long as they are not offered in a public toilet.
After driving home, I wasted no time getting the instrument out of the box. There was a wire cone about five inches tall, and a flat circular metal tray. Not much to get excited about. Opening a can of beer, I drank three swallows before placing the can inside the indentation in the center of the tray. The stainless steel wire cone snapped over the top of the beer can to hold it in place. Simple enough.
Removing a whole chicken from the fridge, I began the uncomfortable act of shoving the wire covered beer can up the birds ass. I recall seeing something similar to this at Attica, but Armando screamed for a long time. The chicken seemed to be handling the abuse rather well. I patted the bird on the back, and complimented it on accomplishing the incommodious feat.
Next I pushed a small potato into the chickens neck. The raw chicken is standing at attention before me causing a wave of patriotism to flow through my body. I’m not the only one with goose bumps. I saluted the bird before placing it inside the oven at 375 degrees.
The theory behind this vertical style of cooking is to let the fat drip off the roasting bird onto the tray while the steam from the beer deposits moisture back inside the chicken.
The process seemed to be going fairly well until I checked to see how the chicken was cooking. Opening the oven door revealed the bird pointing one of its golden brown wings directly at me in an accusatory fashion. After breaking the wing and pressing it gently against the birds side, I informed the chicken that George Bush would not consider my actions torture.
The chicken appeared to have swollen a bit while cooking, and looked like my Aunt Lilly after she started taking the depakote. Listening to a few extra voices is better than a massive weight gain. I mentioned to Aunt Lilly that I still had the afghan she made me for Christmas.
My wife wandered into the kitchen during my conversation with the chicken. If she considered my actions unusual, she didn’t mention it. Mary has commented on other occasions about me being strange, and she does roll her eyes a lot. She once told her parents that I was visiting from one of the group homes. Being well endowed compensates for my other shortcomings, and keeps Mary happy.
The final straw came when I removed the chicken from the oven. The eye in the potato winked at me. I’m susceptible to the temptation of seduction just like anybody else, but the wink made me feel uncomfortable and dirty.
I never found out if the chicken was juicy or not. Instead of eating the bird, I positioned it outside on the patio railing. The crows had Aunt Lilly looking anorexic by the end of the day.
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