We ate a lot of chicken in my house when I was young. I don't remember my mother ever buying a package of thighs or serving boneless chicken breasts. Instead, she'd buy the package that came with 8 pieces of chicken -- 2 breasts, 2 thighs, 2 legs, and 2 wings. The only problem with that is that there were 9 people in our family.
I remember always getting a whole breast piece. I guess that was the advantage of being the oldest son in an Italian family. Looking back now, I don't know who got the other breast piece. I don't think it was my dad. I also can't remember how my mother made 8 pieces go 9 ways. I imagine that she skipped out on the chicken when it was passed around and that my father probably limited himself to a wing. It's kind of amazing that I never even realized in those years that almost everyone at the dinner table was getting a lot less chicken than me and that someone was probably getting none at all.
I think that growing up on one piece of chicken for dinner is what led to my chicken-eating habits. Simply said, I like to pick up my chicken with my hands. Breast, thigh, leg, or wing, I do not like to use a fork and knife. I like to pull the meat off the bones with my fingers, snap bones apart at the joint, and nibble on the gristle. Eating chicken for me is a kind of game -- how can I get every last shred of meat off of the bones in front of me? Trust me, I win at this game.
I realize that it can't be very pretty to watch me eat chicken. So, with the exception of wings, I try to never order a piece of chicken with the bone in when I'm out for dinner. I know that, if I do, I'll have to use a fork and knife, I won't be able to get all the meat off the bone, and I'll have to sit there in dismay as I watch my plate get taken away with all those little scraps still clinging to the bone.
Thursday night, I was at a dinner where we had three choices -- strip steak, salmon, and chicken -- and no menu to describe them. Mass-produced salmon dinners are always a bit dicey and mass-produced strip steak dinners are always too big. So, I went for the chicken, expecting a simple boneless breast. Imagine my surprise, then, when my plate came out. Sitting on it was a cut of chicken that I'd never seen before. It almost looked like they'd fused some of the breast portion to a section of the wing. There was a clear and distinct piece of bone attached to my chicken.
Immediately, I became preoccupied with that bone. I politely used my fork and knife to get at the white meat. As dinner went on, I got closer and closer to the bone. Soon, I'd finished the white meat, all my vegetables, and my potatoes. All that was left was the bone. I looked at it. There was definitely meat still attached. How could I just leave it there? I looked around at my dinner companions. Would they notice if I picked up the bone? Of course they would. This was ridiculous. I had had enough to eat and the meat that was still attached to the bone amounted to no more than two small fork fulls. It was killing me, though, to just leave it there. But, I controlled myself and I did leave it there. I set down my fork and knife and willed my hands to stay in my lap. As the waitress came and removed my plate, I silently said a sad good-bye to the chicken bone.
Now, here I sit on Saturday morning, still thinking about the one that got away. I wish I could have spent just a little bit more quality time with it.