Sunday, I prepared an evening meal of chicken and noodles. Hope nobody conked their head when they passed out from that disclosure. Life is not one endless banquet of gas-station chicken, you know.
Like countless pioneer women before me, I arose at the crack of dawn to catch a tender pullet from the front yard, hack its head off, re-catch the body, scald it, pluck it, boil it, and add the tender noodles that I had rolled out from scratch while the pullet released her juices in the stoneware stockpot. Or crawled out of bed at 8:15, cut open the chicken package, dumped it in a pot of water, and set out my bag of egg noodles. Same difference.
But my preparation methods are not the issue. The Pony and I left the foul cooling her legs in the fridge while we did the weekly shopping. Upon our return, Hick was loitering about, clamoring that he and Genius were heading to Lowe's for some paint to update the lair of Genius. I remarked that the old homestead smelled like a boiled chicken. Hick concurred. "I noticed that when I came in from the barn."
Groceries were stowed away forthwith. The Pony fetched the linens for scrubbing on a washboard down at the creek--I mean gathered the towels and stuffed them in the washer. I decided to clean out the bottom shelf of the pantry. My assistant, one T. Pony, was left holding the bag while I sorted through outdated items. At one point, a noxious odor permeated the kitchen. My inquiring mind wanted to know the source.
"Eww! Did you fart?"
"Well, stop it. My eyes are burning."
"Or maybe it's just the smell of boiled chicken."
"Great. You don't know your butt from a boiled chicken."
Thank you. We'll be here all year.