Ode to My Husband’s Darkly Fried Chicken

by Laura on July 6, 2015

in Blog


A few years old, I found this today, National Fried Chicken Day.

My heart sinks, and a weary numbness comes

My sense, what a mess he will make,

Of both dinner and of kitchen,

His words are forceful, “I will make fried chicken,”

Oblige must I, for he is man who has captured my heart

O for a drink of vintage wine, as man enters my domain,

“I’ll start at 4,” now 30 minutes late,

He struggles, separating wings from breasts

I hover not knowing, offer help or ignore?

Man against bird, a struggle for pride

A woman hopes for appetizing results

Children wonder, “What’s that smoke?”


Angry exclamation “Oh, feverish fat!”

Bird in hell, golden skin obscured

Consort consoles, then walks away

into fiery mist to disarm impending alarm

Eyes avert growing chaos;

An uneasy mind, quelled with wine

Two revolutions of clock, pile of pink wings remain

sizzle at last; inferno of mess

hectic confluence of elements

Shouts to clean hands

Eager eyes await their fate,

as does a man’s ego

Ravenous offspring ask for seconds

Wife impressed, still ignoring the mess

Man’s mind at ease, and resolution made:

“I will return; next time with golden results.”

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