The anatomy of a chicken

by Katie on April 11, 2012

One of those dreaded days arrived:  where I have to tell a story on myself rather than my dear husband.

But since he’s such a good sport,  and demanded requested I do this, here goes…

A few nights ago, one of those rare suppers occurred where we ate poultry. You know, just to mix it up a little, stir up the old cow, elk, deer, antelope and Alaskan fish we usually eat. And also? Only when it’s on super sale at the grocery store. Which is actually how the shenanigans below became part of our conversation.

So, there we were…Brandon, scarfing down his dinner plate; me, taking dainty bites while he rolled his eyes at my bite selection process and speed with which the fork was entering my mouth. In other words:  every other meal of our lives.

Brandon inquired as to why we were eating chicken. I explained the mega-super-sale at the grocery store I happened upon when that particular piece of poultry was purchased. And then told him about my most recent chicken score:

“Yeah, and last week, they had an awesome two-for-one thing going on with the chicken,” I started, “so I got two really good packages of chicken for less than five dollars. Some good breasts, and then a package of tenderloins.”

“Katie, chickens don’t have tenderloins. And even if they did, they’d be so tiny they’d be like the popcorn chicken bites. Tenderloins are a mammal thing. And chickens are not mammals.”

“Sure they do,” I insisted. “It’s what I bought.”

And Brandon proceeded to provide another good argument for his side of the case.

This next little gem? Is the most embarrassing thing that came out of my mouth during the entire ordeal. Now, anyway. At the time, I was exuding confidence in such a way that should be criminal. So sure of myself. Which is where things usually take a turn for the worst in my world.

I gave Brandon my best “Duh” look, and said, “Brandon, where do you think chicken tenders come from?”

Yes. I. Did.

I know.

Now, on the other side, I’m still holding my head in shame.

Anyway, at the time, our friendly banter continued until it was clear I was going to have to prove my case, once and for all. And yes, I had that air about me when I set out toward the freezer to retrieve the package of chicken tenderloins to rub in Brandon’s face.

He called out behind me, “Oh, are you going to go prove it now? Please do!”

And I swung that freezer door open with all might. I’m lucky I didn’t hit myself with it, my chest was so puffed out with confidence.

…That is, until I saw the chicken package I had been referring to the entire evening.

These three words from Foster Farms shattered my dreams then and there:  “Chicken Breast Tenders”

Then came my march of shame. Since I had insisted upon solving the issue before finishing my supper, I had to return to the table. Where my husband waited, eagerly anticipating the verdict.

I just slumped in my chair and stared down at my plate as I tried to finish eating in the midst of my embarrassment.

Finally, Brandon spoke up, as if he even needed to ask after witnessing my reaction.

“So, what was it?” he asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I replied, which is always code for “I was wrong,” in Katie-speak.

Eventually, I had to concede I was incorrect in my knowledge of a chicken’s anatomy and the cut of meat I thought was in our freezer.

Moral of the story:  “Tender” is not equal to “Tenderloin.”

 

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