The Tired Chicken


It was to be the uber-supper.

The Last Supper? Not so grandiose I guess, but important things were on the line – like my job.

The home-visit-from-the-boss supper. Need I say more?

The slow roast chicken was done and out of the oven. My boss was hungry – and not just for profits.

Get the damn chicken on the table.

My wife said STOP. “You can’t cut the chicken now. Leave it for a bit, it has to rest.”


To this day I still don’t understand why meat has to rest after it’s been cooked.

Every time I cook some meat, I want to tear into it right away. Preferably the way my ancestors did. Fingernails and teeth, not knives and forks.

Isn’t it me that should get some rest? I’m the one turning on the bbq, flipping the chicken, watching for excessive flame, poking with a meat thermometer, lifting the beer bottle. The hopes and dreams of several dinner guests in my tongs.

And I haven’t even started chewing.

The meat just lies there.

Does the chicken really need to rest after complete inactivity for two hours? Isn’t being dead rest enough?

I think there’s another term for resting your cooked chicken. It’s called getting cold.

What about the dinner guests? They’re starving, you’ve prepared the plates with potatoes and veggies and the meat is still missing.

“Where’s the chicken?”

“It’ll be out in a minute, it’s just napping.”

“Okay. How often does it nap? Will it need another one before I finish eating it? Maybe I should eat it really fast before it gets drowsy. I hate when my chicken nods off during the meal.”

“Pay attention, I’m eating you.”

What if my chicken has narcolepsy? I guess a good poke with a fork should wake it up.

My chicken tastes bland. Is that because it’s asleep? Is the flavour asleep too?

Compare a chicken before and after it’s cooked.

If you ask me the chicken needs a rest before it’s cooked. If you looked in the mirror and saw a raw chicken wouldn’t you feel the need for a day off? Hey, did you go to Michael Jackson’s doctor for that complexion? You need more like a full blown vacation, I would say.

And that’s pretty much what a chicken gets when you prepare and cook it. It’s a spa vacation for meat.

It starts off with a relaxing rub down of scented oils and herbs. There’s probably some nice music in the background and the liquor is flowing.

After marinating (aka, resting) for a few hours while reading an exciting set of cooking instructions, it’s time for the tanning booth. Two hours of relaxing warmth in your own private tanning pan with a nice window view? I’ll take that.

Don’t open the oven door, my chicken is on vacation. It needs the rest.

Then the chicken gets a free medical checkup – insert the thermometer, I hope this chicken isn’t getting the flu.

Take it out of the oven and the chicken looks like George Hamilton – a tan that people pay thousands for.

The mashed potatoes are jealous. “Hey man, you just back from Barbados? Nice tan. We never tan. Sometimes they’ll add a yam or two but we end up with one of those fake orange tans.”

The chicken is moved to a cutting board, but really it’s like a Pilates mat for meat. You bend the chicken in all kinds of twisted ways to make sure it’s cooked.

Time for the chiropractor to give the chicken a bone adjustment. All included.

By this time the chicken is so relaxed the meat just falls off the bone. Have you ever been that relaxed?

When the chicken is served, people go out of their way to gather around and fuss about it. This is no time for a nap.

Please, give me some of that treatment.

I wish I had a job as a chicken.

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