Dinnertime was fast approaching and the refrigerator was empty.
Not empty in a "Gee, honey, we have no more Yoo-hoo and we're almost out of herbed brie" kind of way. But empty in the "There's nothing to eat unless you want a strawberry Go-Gurt that expired in 2002 with a hoisin-sauce chaser" kind of empty.
At any moment the wolves would be howling at the kitchen door, expecting some kind of evening sustenance. Pizza was out - we had that last night. Omelets and pancakes were, too - we were out of eggs. And milk. And maple syrup. And coffee, butter, flour, cheese, sugar and ham.
So I set out for the grocery store. Halfway down the dairy aisle, I detected the glorious smell of Sunday dinners from my childhood - a scent that was at once warm and friendly and comforting. The aroma was coming from somewhere behind the prepared-food counter. It was coming from a gaggle of hot, golden birds that had spent the last two hours turning slowly in a rotisserie oven.
Hot chicken. Say it loud and there's music playing.
Hot chicken. Say it soft and it's almost like praying.
Hot chicken.
I sidled up to the birds that had finished their turn on the carousel of meat and were now warming under heat lamps. I studied them closely. My stomach growled.
Hot chicken in the morning, hot chicken in the evening, hot chicken at suppertime. OK, maybe not in the morning. But with one 2-pound rotisserie chicken, I could feed two hungry adults and one picky 5-year-old and still have enough for sandwiches the next day. I grabbed a chicken, tossed a loaf of warm French bread and a log of chevre into the cart and grabbed a bag of mixed greens and a pint of strawberries before heading to the cash register.
Hot chicken and the living is easy.
Here's the point where I need to convince you, the reader, that I know how to cook. Just this year I hit upon the perfect method for roasting chicken at home, one involving garlic-herb butter and deep-tissue massage that turns out a moist, tasty roast chicken that would make my Nonna proud.
And, yes, I fully understand that a whole $6 rotisserie chicken from the grocery store costs more than twice what a raw chicken a few aisles over costs. But roasting a chicken takes 20 minutes per pound, and it was already dinnertime.
And, finally, I also know that lots of places - from warehouse stores to fast-food emporiums to gourmet groceries - sell lots and lots of delicious rotisserie chickens. But because I didn't need a case of juice boxes, an enormous fat-laden meal or a head of $6 organic radicchio, I stuck closer to home.
