The children were hungry, we had stayed too long at the park. This may be California but here in the north when we get a sunny day in the middle of our rainy winter we roll in it like happy pigs. The park is just out my back gate and a short walk down a path in the woods. Rather than send India off home to make tea (dinner) with growling babies underfoot, I suggested that we stay at my house, put on a movie for the kids, and I would go and get a roasted chicken while she started the veggies. I got back just as the veggies were coming off the stove.

“This isn’t a chicken, “said India.
“Of course it’s a chicken. I picked it out of the chicken case.”
“Didn’t you tell me you were raised on a chicken farm?” she asked.

“You know I was. I lived with 20,000 shrieking chickens. Sometimes they got loose after the guillotine fell and ran around, headless horrors for a minute or two.”

“Well,” she said. “Then you bloody well flunk chicken because this is not a chicken.” I looked in the box.

“What the hell is this?” I said. “Where are the legs?”
“It’s a turkey breast,” she said. “There are no legs.”