Playing chicken

Any day that starts out with a husband begging his wife to rescue him is bound to be good. In a pre-senior moment, J locked his keys in the Beetle and I had to dash off with my spare set to let him in. Good thing I work from home, huh?

That accomplished, we got him fed and then visited the jeweler. This is always a good thing. My birthday trinkets were sized and ready but alas my neck grew, and my wrist did the opposite, so I didn't get to wear them home. Boo. But we ordered a new piece for me, a ring made from the stones of both our mothers' own rings, and it will be lovely. And we got my pearls lengthened, so once it is cool enough to wear them again I will look polished and preppy. . . in my tie-dye.

Our third stop had us across the street from a poultry farm, and since there was no meat in the house for J's dinner, he was only too eager to stop. He balked a little when he saw the cages and heard the clucking. But when the chicken man held up the first possibility, J turned pale and bolted to the car like a city boy. I pointed at another bird, a fat white chicken with a good attitude, thanked him for being our supper, and nodded at a white duck. "Honk," he said in return, agreeing to come home with us, too.

Ten minutes and $24 later, I left with two warm black plastic bags. The temperature was disconcerting. J squealed louder than the birds during their beheadings and made them ride in the trunk.

But somehow he recovered enough to get that duck in the oven. And it already smells amazing. I haven't had fresh poultry since I was 13, when we lived in the country and I rode my bike to the chicken and egg farm. Chickens were $4 then, with $1 extra for the execution. My mother always gave me the $5, but $1 bought a lot of candy on the way home, so I watched once and from then on, snapped their necks myself.

That's no longer an option. J would faint.