Finger lickin' good

Tonight for dinner we stopped by the grocery store and picked up a rotisserie chicken. From the moment Ian heard what was on the menu, he whined "I don't want chicken!" We told him he was perfectly free to eat only broccoli and beets for dinner, but he thought he could get what he wanted - pasta, apparently - if he complained enough. So naive.

Ian kept up this refrain all the way until his plate was being set in front of him, despite our assurances that he'd had it many times before and scarfed it down. When he touched it, he found a new objection.

"It's wet!"

I think he meant that it was simply moist, as chicken should be. As opposed to the chicken I grew up with, which was cooked so thoroughly Julia Child suddenly needed a drink of water even from afar.

Ian finally relented and tried a single thin strand of meat.

"Mmmmmmm! You didn't tell me this was the good chicken!"