“Can you pick a chicken up, please?” I yelled after my husband as he grabbed the car keys and headed for the back door. He was off to do the weekly grocery shop.
“A what?” he yelled from half way down the garden path.
That stopped him dead in his tracks.
He came back into the house.
“Did you just say a chicken?”
“You’re going to cook a chicken?”
Honestly, judging by the astounded look on his face you’d think I’d just said I was going to climb Everest. Either that or he thought I wanted a real life strutting, clucking chicken that I could decapitate and pluck, one feather at a time, with my bare hands.
“Yes.” I repeated firmly. “A chicken. One that I can shove in the oven.” I glared at him and tried to ignore the big smirk on his face. “What’s the big deal?”
I’ll tell you now what the big deal was, what was so obviously going through his mind.
I don’t cook.
More specifically, I don’t cook anything that even remotely resembles what it looked like when it was still running around.