Well, it was a pretty quiet birthday. Leaden skies, unreturned phone calls, email. At the end of it, I played the ultimate working-mother card: The rotisserie chicken. What on earth is happening with rotisserie chickens these days? They’re the size of pigeons. You’re lucky to feed three people with one of them, and the third person is a teenager who picks.
I tried to get a fryer at the market a few weeks ago. The poor things were so thin you could see the pinkish flesh through the skin.
“Find me one that didn’t die of starvation,” I asked. It’s my standard quip. It never works. They all died of starvation. And yet, the lure of “Amish chicken” is powerful in an urban environment. I once heard one young man tell another that the Amish just do chicken better. This while standing over the case featuring the scrawny ones.
“The Amish do chicken exactly the same as everybody else,” I told him. He wasn’t having it, but I know whereof I speak. Not organic, not hormone-free, not running around a barnyard snagging bugs and grubs before being humanely beheaded on a tree-stump chopping block. Just a smaller sort of poultry operation, but hey — it ain’t Tyson.
But the rotisserie chicken was tasty, if not large enough. Mashed potatoes plus oven-roasted carrots with black sesame seeds. Leftover birthday cake. Good enough for a Monday.
And now “Boardwalk Empire” and the realization, once again, that all the allegedly high-quality Sunday-night TV is getting on my nerves. “Homeland” is a joke. “Masters of Sex,” which started strong, has stagnated into the same half-dozen or so themes over and over — Sex is science, sex is emotion, sex follows a script, sex never follows a script, blah blah blah. Will Dr. Masters overcome his emotional repression? Will Virginia Johnson get the respect she craves? We interrupt this repetition to display Lizzy Caplan’s naked breasts again. We interrupt those breasts to show you the saucy blonde secretary’s breasts again. And so on.
Also, I’m tired of these allegedly period shows dumping 21st-century language and attitudes hither and yon when it suits the writers. The previews for next week show one character raging, “I’m just an organ donor to you people,” a neat trick for 1959 or thereabouts, when organ transplantation was in its very earliest days and the phrase “organ donor” was hardly in common usage.
So, some bloggage before we start the runup to the holiday? Sure:
The Hollywood Reporter blows the lid off “No animals were harmed in the making of this motion picture,” with mixed results. I don’t think anyone can help but feel for a tiger that nearly drowns making “Life of Pi,” but it’s hard not to chuckle over a paragraph like this:
… a chipmunk was fatally squashed in Paramount’s 2006 Matthew McConaughey-Sarah Jessica Parker romantic comedy Failure to Launch.
Not the chipmunk! Fatally squashed! The problem is, it brings out the way we really do put animals on a hierarchy. Mammals over fish, some mammals over other mammals.
Remember the Columbus Dispatch bike blogger hit by a car earlier this month? He’s awake and blogging again. But a long way from OK. Shudder.
So, happy Tuesday? Happy Tuesday.