Tender Is the Chicken

August 30, 2008 at 1:55 am (Uncategorized) (, )

The chicken gleamed at me, the two breasts of it lying, thawed, on the kitchen counter like dead slugs, stripped of skin and bone and any other ancillary tissue, just wet and flabby muscle.


Chicken, that most un-meatlike of meats, insipid and uninspiring. It’s hard even to hate. Sure, you can do nice things with it. Some can do great things, and they send them through the wires to flicker into your eyes from the TV. But the chicken on the margin, the chicken after the chicken after the chicken after the chicken…one runs out of great and nice things to do. No man swimming in the frigid seas of life can or should have to bear that accreted weight, that mass like a thousand small, nondescript millstones hung about the neck.


“What’s for dinner, honey?” she called from the living room. For a moment, I let myself pretend that her final word was a menu suggestion rather than a shopworn term of endearment. If only. But no, her voice would have betrayed her even if convention hadn’t. That hint of forlorn resignation – which by its very presence implied and recalled the memory of the times when things weren’t so damn drab, and in doing so gave the knife of regret the slightest twist – hidden beneath the thin sunshine lacquer on her voice…was I imagining it? She must have known the answer already.


“Chicken,” I replied, trying and failing to keep the same tonal hint out of my answer. “Chicken,” I said again more quietly, lacking any inkling of how to elaborate. Silence was her only rejoinder.


Goddammit, what do I do? The grains of life are too few to let them go seeping through your fingers with meek non-resistance, let alone to toss them about like so many spent cigarette butts by eating plain chicken day after fleeting, indistinguishable day. Grilled with rosemary? No, did that the other day. Barbecue sauce? Too late to do it proper, let it bathe in the stuff for a few hours, let them get to know each other. Look up a recipe? Sure, then go to the store and spend money that isn’t there to buy ingredients that you’ll use a tenth of just this once and then forget in the dingy shadows of the larder. You stymie me, chicken, you vex me. I’d flay you if you hadn’t been flayed already, I’d slice you into…


“Chicken tenders!” I called, almost shouted, really. Of course! Delirium crashed through me like a tidal wave, like it does in a man crawling on his knees through the desert to the oasis on the shimmery horizon. When is a bad time for chicken tenders? There is none. When was the last time I had chicken tenders? I can’t even remember. I’ve got oil, dammit, of the extra virgin olive sort, and flour, and half an array of spices such as 12th-century barons would start a crusade for! I don’t have a deep-fryer but I can pan-fry. These will be chicken tenders to put Chik-Fil-A to shame, to make the world’s flop-hatted chefs sweat at night pondering how they were bested by an amateur with a dish eaten only by children and the vulgar. “I love chicken tenders!” she responded. “Love” would seem a wan bit of diction once her mouth had closed softly round one of these.


I set to work like a bugged machine, half-flinging ingredients and implements with an expression of grim mania on my hunger-strained face. The chicken breasts, laid out like dredged-up drowning victims on the red plastic cutting board – I sliced them lengthwise without compunction, then tossed the pieces into limp wads on an extra plate. Now the crucial part: the batter. Look it up online? Hell no. This was no time for holding hands and following leads. I’d need egg, obviously, two of them whipped into a homogenized slop. Then the dry stuff, flour to start, white like bone and just as dry. And spices: salt, black pepper, garlic powder, the pillars of amateur seasoning. As a personal flourish and a signifier of my own genius, I threw in rosemary, the aromatic herb that must have evolved for the sole purpose of being devoured by man on white meat, and paprika, the red spice overpowered by the scent of…myrrh? Who on earth still knows what myrrh smells like? But that seems right.


Soak in the egg, roll in the spice-flour, and drop into the singeing oil. It sizzles. Turn as needed. Each batch left a residue of sediment, a dusting of flour particles that lacked the gumption to see the journey through to its happily digested end. They burned for their lack of faith, turned black and sludgy and collected on the low side of the pan. I tried to strand them out of the oil and away from the tenders. Some pieces still had their breading darkened by the belatedly repentant hangers-on, but no matter: chicken tenders birthed by a vision as grand as mine could not be destroyed by such as these. Before the last batch hit the pan, I dumped the slop of extant oil and immolated flour, coating the sink with a hellish splash of super-heated organic matter. One more dose of olive oil and the operation resumed.


At last they were done, a glorious, juice-seeping white all the way through beneath the golden brown, spice-flecked shell. I piled them on a paper towel cradled by a red ceramic plate. “Oh, get the ranch out!” she called. I did. Together with packaged shells and white cheddar they went on the scarred wooden top of the table.


The most exquisite moments a man lives come just as his dearest dreams are about to become his actual history. His heart, languishing as it does so long in the bonds of bored routine or pained anticipation of far-off paradises, thrills and flutters in the evanescent presence of its almost-fulfillment. The rest of his body effervesces also, the soma aping the psyche as ever. The mind, for its part, approaches a singularity, casting off from itself all notions but the virtual pre-experience of what is yet to come. And then the threshold is crossed: the flower of the man’s imagined future, so precious and so despised for not being the actual, palpable truth, has its stem severed by contact with inescapable, irrefutable reality, and its blossom withers and disintegrates in a quantum instant. All that remains is the recognizable but strange state of things as they really are.


Half-greasy, with muddled seasoning. The mulched bits of chicken and breading rolled across my tongue in huddled clumps. I swallowed and bit another, this time applying the dressing first. I forced a smile. “Pretty good,” I said. Not really a lie, probably one of the less crooked things uttered on this globe that night. But not exactly a crystalline mirror held up to reflect the hard facts, either. She turned down the corners of her full, pouty lips – those lips that could make me into warm pudding, into a panting hound at heel, without enough warning even for a moan to escape my mouth first – producing an expression of appreciative contemplation, but that too was a dodge. Our eyes met, and our eyes could not pretend.


“I’m full. Do you want these?” Two whole tenders sat glistening with soiled grease on her flimsy, oil-spotted paper plate. “Sure,” I said. They’d go down, with ranch at least. A man needs sustenance, though the wise know better than to ask what for. In philosophy as in court: don’t ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.


Enveloping a spoon’s worth of creamy white pasta with her soft, red mouth, she turned her eyes to the kitchen and half blanched at the small mound of tainted cookware. I let mine drift to the patio door, which was mostly glass. The unwashed steel grill sat outside of it, obscured by shadows but highlighted by the dingy glow of the yellow porch light, waiting placidly, complacently, intently, ready always like a long-discarded lover to welcome me back with a sweet, sickly embrace.


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Rolling a Blog

August 27, 2008 at 2:52 am (Uncategorized) ()

The cold glow of the LCD display transmogrifies my skin into a three-dimensional stencil cutout, some features lit a pale, desaturated flesh hue, others black as the inky night outside the window behind me. I sit, watching the cursor blink on, off, on, off, bringing with it a new thought, a new potential direction, with each iteration.


Where to begin? With the half-assed thought that spurred me? With the first sentence I wrote? With my birth, with ancient Greece, with the first man, with the spinning solar system, with the big bang, with the impenetrable blackness that may or may not have come before? There is no point of first relevance. All things led to this moment, to me in this secondhand chair in front of this glowing technobauble. And many other things besides; I don’t want to sound like a self-absorbed ass here, whether it suits me or not. But where to begin?


Let’s cut it short. A monitor is a manacle, a gripping thing attached by an extension to a weight that grabs a man and holds him still ’til it’s had its way with him. Man is a prisoner of his own creations. But he made his wardens well; they lisp alluring love-notes from their sweet facades. They cultivate Stockholm Syndrome. And I’m no better than anyone else. I fall for it. I crave that slowly strangulating embrace. And so I propitiate the petty gods of modern life: I offer up a few cobbled words in bedraggled paragraphs and sit back once more, eased, perhaps, but no less sick and no less tired of the sickness.


Segments of my fingers flash in and out of the cutout portions of the stencil, black, pale, black, pale. My eyelids grow heavy like worn out window shades. I prop them up, I force them not to drift and wander…how long can you explicate yourself, cut into the meat of your own brain, and still dodge the big question, the main question, the only real question? It’s goddamn well written on everything, just under the surface, the chipped lead paint that you try like hell to stare at between the bare patches.


Where does this lead? What is the End? There, I said it. So much hubris just in thinking it, as any schlub with a curious mind and a few years at his back ought to know. The future? You want to know about it? Now, before we get there? I supposed you’ve got the present all figured out, right? And the past, hey, that shit’s been all laid out neat like a medical school corpse for ages, I’m sure. Please. You go ahead and wave your arms at the fog in front of you, beg it to part for your precious eyes, plead on your knees instead of striding forward like a man, or like we think men ought to walk, like we imagine our dads strode if we can’t remember any better. Don’t expect much more than truculent opacity. Me, I’ve learned to be content with this, the six inches of hard ground in front and the twisted, slippery, slipping memory of the few yards behind. God, if only they were just a bit more slippery.


At last my fingers still, the stencil composes itself. Time has rolled on as time does, implacably. The mind is worn, older. Does the shape make sense? Has anything become clearer? Maybe. Maybe from the future’s perspective, if…but no. Time for the last respite, sleep, that fickle, fascinating dame, if only she’ll stay the night.

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