A few days have passed since my last update. They weren't very interesting and I am not one to write just for the sake of having a daily update. My writing needs purpose. It has purpose today.
I have not been craving bread or crackers. I have been craving breaded chicken. I haven't wanted anything else as bad ever -not even as a pregnant woman craving sausage biscuit sandwiches with mustard and pickles. Every time I eat all I see in my mind, marching across the fabric of my imagination, is a chicken breast patty coated in flour and fried golden crispy.
I gave in today.
A friend and I had completely good intentions as we exchanged my grill tank at the little corner gas station. Braving the creepy, bearded man at the counter was the least of my concerns as I anticipated a grilled chicken dinner smothered in teriyaki sauce.
Got the tank home and threaded it up to the grill. Started it. Waited for the flame and heat to burn the remnants of the last meal I grilled. I went to check on it with 2 chicken breasts in hand and was greeted by the smell of gas. No flame. Try as I might I couldn't get the thing to stay lit.
So I tried again -shut it off, rethreaded it, turned it on, pressed the little clicky ignitor button. It roared to life. Good. I placed the breasts on the grill and was greeted with a satisfying sizzle. I walked back into my house, entirely pleased with my mechanical genius.
I checked on them a few more times, and while they were cooking a bit slowly for my taste, they were still cooking and the flame still danced in the bottom. The next time I checked, however, I was greeted with that ominous, farty smell of gas again. Sure enough: no flame. Crap.
I was not about to heat up my non-air conditioned house, which was already resembling an oven as it is, so we decided to hit up a local bar for some good old-fashioned, wholesome bar food. It's not like there is much of a choice in this itty-bitty town anyway.
I already knew I wasn't going to be able to resist the crispy chicken sandwich even before stepping foot into the blissfully chilled recesses of the bar. I went anyway. Maybe I could just try eating the chicken and order it sans bun. Then if my intestinal tract goes all mutinous I will know for sure that it is the gluten making me feel blah. In the name of science and experimentation I would do it. This is what I tell myself.
It took forever for the food to arrive. But when it did. Oh, when it did, it sang to me. There it sat on a mound of shredded lettuce, onion, and tomato (the tomato was passed to my friend, pinched between 2 disgusted fingers... tomato = ewie). The golden halo around it sang in angel choir voices and it glistened like the dew after sunrise. I pushed the intruding french fries to the side and went to work. Bite after bite rolled around on my tongue, a waltz of flavor and ecstasy. Until it was gone and I was left with that feeling you get at about 2 o'clock on Christmas Day, when all of your toys have been played with and you know that it is a whole year until you experience joy again. And there was that other feeling. The faint rumblings of the storm to come and the sensation of knowing what it feels like to be a birthday balloon. Damn.
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