Winner Winner Chicken Dinner or (subtitle) Tasty Tabitha

Ahh … chicken. My love for you knows no bounds. I would have you for dinner every night of the week. But my family would revolt. So I won't. 

Almost every Sunday, I cook a chicken. As in an entire chicken. As in the total bird. As in the whole bawk bawk. Minus the head. That would be grody. I was going to post a picture of the raw chicken but that would be mucho grody (pardon my Spanish).

For some reason, I feel compelled to shoot the breeze with the chicken as I season her and get her ready to cook. I know that's weird, but it's not like she talks back. Usually. And she's a surprisingly good listener. Okay. Maybe not that surprising. She is missing her head.

You know how one thing can sometimes lead to another? Normally chatting with the chicken leads to me naming her. Well, normally might be a poor choice of words. There's not much normal about talking to your poultry. I don't know what's weirder: me naming a chicken or me telling you guys about it. Anyhoo, I like to know the names of people (and chicken) in which I'm gabbing. I'm friendly that way.

Sunday night's chicken looked like a Tabitha to me.

I asked Tabitha if she thought I'd finely chopped the garlic enough so no one unexpectedly got a huge hunk. (She said yes).

I consulted Tabitha about the seasonings. 

Too much sage? (No). 

More red pepper flake? (Yes, please).


Enough salt? (Salt me a little more). 

Butter or olive oil? (Olive oil, dear. I'm an olive oil girl).

I bid Tabitha a fond farewell as I placed her in the oven. She was a good bird.

 Tasty, too.

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