Any fool can cook a chicken

I COOKED a chicken.

I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Just because your wife’s away for six weeks that’s no reason to starve. She was going to leave me whole meals in the freezer but I told her to stop fussing.

Any fool can cook a chicken. They ought to write something big on the outside though, to tell you there’s a plastic bag on the inside, with the neck in it.

The plastic bag melted, but I hadn’t bothered with stuffing so it didn’t matter. It made a mess of the neck, but the cat ate it anyway.

I was going to have the whole works: roast potatoes, brussel sprouts, cauliflower, gravy.

I knew I had them because when my wife left, a month ago, I saw them in the fridge.

While I was getting a beer. They’re still there. I think they’re brussel sprouts, anyway. Or they used to be. And that bin I thought the potatoes were in… it’s got flour in it. God knows where the potatoes are. You’d think she’d have got some bloody potatoes in before she went…

Not that it mattered really, because I couldn’t have fitted anything else in the roasting tin.

No, not for cooking. For eating. I would have liked a plate but I couldn’t find any. There’s a tea plate on the draining board. I’ve been using it for the past month, but all you can fit on that is toast.

How many places are there in a kitchen to hide a plate! And knives and forks. We had some when she went, I’m certain. Maybe she took them with her.

Anyway, I reckon if we’d been meant to eat with a knife and fork we’d have been born with them instead of fingers. There’s nothing more decadent than tearing a chicken carcass up and eating it with your fingers.

I didn’t eat it all. I ate half and bunged the rest in the fridge. There was plenty of room for the roasting tin because most of the beer was gone. Mind you, half a chicken can dry out a hell of lot in one week.

I thought I’d fry it up with a bit of butter.

But I can’t find any. I know we had it because I’ve been eating it with the toast. God knows why she keeps butter in the freezer. It’s… well, freezing. And you have to cut chunks to put on the toast. It doesn’t go very far.

The only thing that did disappoint me was not having gravy. You need gravy with a roast chicken (especially when it’s dry as this one) but I couldn’t find the bottle.

I washed it down with the last of the beer instead. Probably overdid it because right now I’m feeling a bit… delicate. Either that or it was finding the cat food. Half a tin of it. I felt a bit guilty because it means I must’ve forgotten to feed the cat, but she wouldn’t have wanted it. It was full of mould and it stank out the whole fridge.

Unless that was the carrots. There were a fistful of them in there. I didn’t know carrots could melt. Things like that are enough to make a man queasy.

If I had any sense I’d leave it all for my wife to clean up. Otherwise she’ll never learn. But I suppose I’ll have a go at it myself.

Tomorrow

When I’m feeling better.