I would guess that over the course of my childhood, 50% of all large family events featured a roast chicken. I have no idea where the chickens came from, but I know it wasn’t from our oven. Sometimes these chickens tasted as if they were baked under the care of Stephanie Alexander. Other times they had the moisture content of an Ugg boot and tasted as though they’d been seasoned by fourth-century ascetic monks. I may be exaggerating the facts here, but not my feelings.
I have since developed a deep and multifaceted interest in poultry, and was thrilled at the thought of eating eight supermarket roast chickens. Imagine your boss saying: “Don’t worry about the report, I’d rather you spend the afternoon finding deeper ways to engage in your hobby.” I wasn’t the only one – the last time there was this much interest in joining a taste test was when we tried chocolate.
