I’ve been blessed with a husband who eats nearly everything I make enthusiastically (save for a few early disasters in our more formative years, where he smiled politely and made a few gentle suggestions for “next time”), and who has even latched onto and embraced the idea of eating vegetarian more nights than not.
Though the vegetarian revelation is quite the surprise from just a few short years ago, there is one thing that surprises me even more still: the man loves chicken.
Whereas in years past neither of us were “chicken order-ers” at a restaurant – because really, why would you bore yourself with chicken when there are saucy short ribs, tender braised lamb, or a perfectly cooked piece of hailbut on the menu? – the tides have turned.
Chicken somehow used to seem wussy, like you were the picky eater of the bunch, and it was the only safe way out. And typically, in all fairness to our stuck-up-noses, I genuinely feel it was. Chicken was boring, a token sauteed breast here and there, always the cheapest thing on the list, and always also the most uninspired.
“I’ll have the chicken.”
Meh.
