*Well, that's when I started it.

Yesterday, I did something I haven't done for over nineteen years.

I ate chicken. Willingly, which I haven't done in even longer. Twenty-five years, maybe. Or thirty.

I don't like chicken, you see. It is, I know, mainly psychological. I like turkey (if it's not dry and overcooked, but that's pretty normal, isn't it?). I like duck-- lots. I don't have a problem with poultry in general. Just chicken, and the reason for that, like most psychological hang-ups, can be distilled down to my mother.

She doesn't like chickens either. Oh, she'll eat chicken. Far too frequently, in fact, but she can't really like chickens, or she wouldn't do to them the things she does.

Here's my mother's favorite chicken recipe:

Put some rice krispies in a plastic bag, and smash with a rolling pin. Add salt and pepper if you remember (optional!), toss your chicken pieces into the bag and shake well. There you have it-- homemade Shake-n-Bake. Now shove them into a hot oven for a few hours, until they are thoroughly dead and so dry they're positively desiccated. The pickiest child will eat this, although not happily. Anyone else with half a tastebud will hate it. Serve three times a week.

Yep, three times a week. Here's the irony: I was the child who would eat anything. I would, and still will, try anything at least once. Clams, squid, headcheese, liverwurst-- tried and actually liked. I like brussel sprouts. I love cabbage. I even like liver and onions, provided you don't overcook the liver. The only thing I don't like on tastebud considerations alone is green beans, although I will eat them with bacon and vinegar if the beans are fresh and still a bit crispy.

My sister and brother are the complete opposite, although my brother is recovering slowly from my sister's influence. Ever met a girl who didn't like chocolate? Not allergic: doesn't like it. Although these days she claims that she must be allergic out of self defense, I suppose.

Anyway, this is why we were force fed bland, dry chicken. Every other day, I swear. This is also why I adore spicy food, ever since I discovered that if you floated your chicken in a pool of Ortega Hot Taco Sauce, it would add a bit of flavor and counteract some, but not all, of the dryness. I used to go through at least a bottle a week, more once I started branching out into adding it to other of my mother's favorite dishes. It's also probably why I love to cook, and it's as good an explanation as any for my horror of inadequately sauced pizza. (I would rather have the cheese and all its toppings slide off into my lap than encounter a slightly dry pizza.)

When I left home for college, I stopped eating chicken at all. There have been relapses-- if I've been invited to someone's house and they are serving chicken, for example, I'll eat it. It's polite, and I don't hate it that much (unlike green beans, which are never served as a main course anyway and are therefore easy to avoid without hurt feelings). My BIL made his special fried chicken last time we visited, for example. But ordering it in restaurants? Cooking it for myself as well as my husband? No way. The only exception is Buffalo wings. I love me some Buffalo wings, but I don't really look on them as chicken, per se. But other than the wings, you can forget it as far as I'm concerned.

Except....

In a couple days, I'll be 38. That means I've spent over half my life avoiding chicken and, let's face it, that's just silly.

So last night, when Elvis called on his way home from work, and suggested that he stop for some take-out chicken since it was so late, I said fine. I had planned pizza, but it was late and pizza takes a while. Then, when he asked if I wanted him to get some for me, I said OK.

He went, by the way to Frangenstein's. Chicken, in Portuguese, is "frango". Get it? Very witty. And, yes, they do have a life-sized plywood monster standing on the sidewalk, platter of chicken in hand and menu taped to his chest. Otherwise, what's the point?

In a mild fit of regression, I asked Elvis to make sure they put hot sauce on it. In Portugal, the main type of chili pepper is the piri-piri. It's wasn't so bad, though: in these parts, piri piri is the hot sauce of choice, and an apparently vital part of anyone's take out roast chicken experience.

So, how was my take out roast chicken experience?

Well, I asked for a quarter, but they don't sell quarters, only halves, so that's what I got. And the hot sauce was hardly what I would call hot. It was moist, though, and it did have a bit of flavor to it. The skin was nice-- rather crispy-- and I ate a decent amount of it, even though it's unhealthy and Elvis usually pulls his off. The fries were nice. A bit cold, but nice. The chicken, however, was piping hot, so that was good. On the other had, it was a wee bit dry, but not too bad.

So, to summarize: It was OK.

I mean, it's chicken. Chicken is, by it's very nature, boring. People who want you to eat strange things say "Don't worry, it tastes just like chicken." Not a line that's ever worked on me: in fact, it's made me less inclined to try things that I would have been perfectly happy to have a go at before the analogy was made.

Note to Elvis: Before you go getting too excited, I still have no plans to visit the Garden Of Chicken, piri-piri speciality or not. Besides, you've already forced me to go there once, seven years ago. Remember the sardines? How they smelled? How I didn't realize they hadn't been cleaned until I found the tiny little lung on the end of my fork? Inflated?

And as for green beans, you can just forget it. They are just vile, according to my tastebuds, and I'm having none of it.