Give Me the Bird!

I never thought I would say this.

But go ahead, give me the bird. 

The rotisserie chicken that is.

It happens in spells.  Rotisserie chicken becomes
the mainstay of my diet. 

I’m not the only one.  According to the National Chicken Council, in 2018 Americans consumed an average of 93.5 pounds of chicken per person.  That was due mostly to the American love affair with rotisserie chicken.  But a council of chickens might be fudging the numbers to bolster its tiny egos.  I can’t say for sure.  I was late to the game.

Apparently, rotisserie chicken became popular in the 1990s.  I was a busy mother hen myself during that decade, cooking my own fingers to the bone.  I didn’t get into the rotisserie chicken habit until 2015 after my chicks had flown the coop.  According to my research, some rotisserie chickens are cheaper than do-it-yourself homemade chicken.  What a roasting fool I was!  Why didn’t I know this information years ago?
I might have done something important with my life.

I saw another article that rates the common store brands of rotisserie chickens from worst to best.  I’ve shopped at a few of those stores including the best and the worst.  I can’t say I’ve ever had a bad rotisserie chicken.  Is that even possible?

A more important question:  What’s in that tender, delicious poultry that causes a rational consumer to become crazed?

During a recent shopping trip, I placed a hot rotisserie chicken on the check-out counter.  The woman bagging my groceries went on in great detail about how much she loves rotisserie chicken.  I mean LOVES rotisserie chicken.  She eats an entire one for lunch EVERY DAY.  The male cashier confirmed the bagger’s confession and added, “You better not try to ask for a piece neither.”

Many of my single friends share the rotisserie chicken habit.  They tell me about buying the chicken and becoming intoxicated by the aroma while driving the meat home in their cars.  Once they get the birds inside their kitchens, these genteel women tear the hot and greasy meat apart with their bare hands and eat it over the sink.  Each of my friends thinks she is the only one who does this.  I am sworn to secrecy, but no need for shame.  I am learning the practice is so common that the store might as well print that on the label under serving suggestions. 

Still, I wonder:  can a product be good for you if it turns educated and civilized women into feral animals?

It’s probably too late for me.  I’ve eaten my 93.5 pounds of rotisserie chicken for each of the past five years.  Whatever is in that chicken is now inside of me.  Whatever “it” is might also explain why I always seem to be turning in circles.

It might not be too late for you.  Save yourselves, if you can.  As for me, give me the bird.

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