Mar. 23, 2017

The Chicken

SO OBVIOUSLY, my son takes after his father and not me. One morning, while in the kitchen I realized no one got anything out for dinner the night before, so I asked my son to get out a package of chicken.

“I’ll put it in some hot water to thaw it out,” he offered, returning from the freezer.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, “I’m making Pasta Faggioli for dinner tonight.”

This is properly pronounced “fazool” according to my friend Roseann Carrano and Dean Martin. My son looks at me strangely and says, “Yeah but don’t you need to shred the chicken or cut it up or something?”

“Yes, I do.”

Dripping with condescension, he says, “Well, how are you going to do that if it’s still frozen?”

“Because I’m going to be cooking it in boiling hot water,” I answer. “I think it will thaw out very nicely before I have to cut it up.”

I swear he gets that from his father’s side of the family. To further prove my assessment of the genie pool, thirty minutes later, my husband calls out to me from the kitchen and asks if I want him to put the chicken in some hot water to thaw it out.

“No,” I call back. “It will be fine. Thank you anyway.”

“Aren’t you going to be cutting this up?”

I pause and think that surely I’m not going through this again with my husband. I answer, “Yes, I will be cutting it up but I’m making Pasta Faggioli (fazool) for dinner so it doesn’t need to be thawed.”

I hear the water turn on as he starts filling the sink. He calls back to me, “How are you going to cut it up if it’s still frozen then?”

“Because I’m boiling first,” I answered with exasperation.

“Okay fine,” he snaps at me. “I just don’t see how you’re going to … never mind, just never mind!”

Men! You can’t live them and you can’t play mind games without them.