Tuesday, 30 May 2017

Who's that chick...

And so it came to pass that yours truly came down to earth with a bump.

I had given son number two the dubious task of organising the week's shopping while the husband and I were living it up in regal splendour.  He had assured me that he was more than capable of sorting out our weekly vittles, and I transferred over to him my usual weekly food bill and entrusted our future survival to him.  'Is there anything which you definitely need?' he asked as we were leaving on Friday.  'If it's important, I don't want to miss it off my list'. 'Bold 2 in 1', I said, 'the lavender one'.  

Bustling us out of the front door, he reassured us that there would be plenty of food in the house when we returned, and, then he said those famous words, 'and you're not to worry'. There was a deal on the table naturally.  Son number two suggested that he should be allowed to keep whatever was left of the £120, assuming that there was enough food for the week. 'Yes, yes, alright', I said, keen to get away.

And now we are back.

Sunday night saw a meal of mussels in white wine sauce with some crusty bread which went down a storm with the husband and daughter number two.  As these were removed from the fridge to be cooked, I took a glance through the shelves to see what was in there.  The shelves all looked very busy, but it wasn't till I took a closer look that I realised that some of this was the remains of last week's shopping, and I threw away several bits and pieces which were well past their sell by/eat by/use by date.  All of a sudden, there was a lot more space on the shelves, and I did a quick stocktake. 

There was some meat for the barbecue, probably enough for two and half people (guess who is on sparrow portions this week).  There were also some of the Muller Corners which son number two is fond off, along with another pack of Lurpak and enough milk to keep me in tea until July.   Other than that, there was very little in there.  

And then I saw the chicken.  Now normally, I buy two extra large chickens each week, which keeps me, the husband and son number two in packed lunches for five days.  These have a roasting time of around two hours.  If I'd left this chicken in the oven for two hours, it would have resembled a dried out conker and a couple of Swan Vestas and would have served no final purpose in its short life.  

It was the smallest chicken in the world, with an estimated roasting time of one hour and ten minutes.  Now I've owned guinea pigs with more meat on their legs than this poor bird did, and with breasts that small, it was never going to make it to page three of Feather Fanciers Weekly.

But I roasted it, and left it to cool, ready to slice up for Tuesday's packed lunches, hoping that there would be enough to go round.  You can imagine my despair when I came back into the kitchen later in the day, to find that the husband had salted the chicken, disrobed it of its crispy skin and eaten both wings. 

But not to worry, what son number two hadn't spent on sensible stuff, he'd spent on Fingers of Fudge, crisps (the expensive Kettle variety which are normally reserved for special occasions), a nice bottle of white wine and a Terry's Chocolate Orange.  Oh, and a pack of twelve Bold capsules. 

It's going to be a week of slim pickings at number 35 this week that's for sure...


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