. . . is the package of chicken thighs from Costco. Though there are some aspects of the current economic gloom that self applauds (Unions are biting the dust! Lines are getting shorter at Costco!), there are some that simply appal her.
Has anyone bought chicken thighs from Costco recently? The ones that come already divided up in little handy plastic pouches? Which are bound together with strips of plastic tape that are absolutely wicked to remove?
Can anyone enlighten self as to why these chicken thighs have shrunk — to the point where they most resemble baby chick thighs? Last night, as self was preparing one of her sure-fire no-fail recipes, Lemon & Tarragon Chicken Fricassee, it occurred to her that the chicken thighs she was cleaning were rather petite. Normally, a Costco chicken thigh is a plump, meaty thing, pumped up with all kinds of artifical steroids and looking invitingly like the Botticelli of all chicken thighs.
But last night’s thighs looked — pathetic. If self hadn’t already changed into her pajamas at the time she started cooking, she would have pushed the whole thing into a plastic bag and driven to Costco to show to a manager.
Call this a chicken thigh? Believe me, I know chicken thighs! Chicken thighs are what brought my son through childhood! We may not have been able to afford lamb chops or veal, but we always had chicken thighs!
As soon as hubby came home, self began on the subject of the chicken thighs. “Just look at this!” self said, indicating her frying pan, where eight chicken thighs were sitting snugly together, barely filling the pan. “Do these look like chicken thighs to you?”
Now, one sure sign that hubby is more than a tad distracted these days is that he walks over, takes one look at the pan, and says: Yes.
Somewhat mollified, self finished cooking dinner. But when it came time to eat, hubby mystifyingly took only one of the little picayune things (the sight of which, actually, began making self feel almost sick) and, after pushing it around on his plate a little bit, declared he was already full. Something that has never, ever happened in the many long decades of self’s marriage. There have been times when hubby barrels in the door with his briefcase, heads straight for the stove, and begins eating from the pot that self has bubbling there, such is the fulsomeness of the man’s appetite. But these chicken thighs obviously had the capacity to kill appetite. Self knows they did hers.