1. Leo drummed his fingers. “Great. I should have installed a smoke screen that makes the ship smell like a giant chicken nugget. Remind me to invent that, next time.”
Hazel frowned. “What is a chicken nugget?”
“Oh, man…” Leo shook his head in amazement. “That’s right. You’ve missed the last, like, seventy years. Well, my apprentice, a chicken nugget—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Annabeth interrupted.
2. I did not become a vegetarian for my health, I did it for the health of the chickens.
3. Do you eat chicken because you are familiar with the scientific literature on them and have decided that their suffering doesn’t matter, or do you do it because it tastes good?
4. When your mama was the geek, my dreamlets,” Papa would say, “she made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing.
5. We all like chicken
6. Despite the fact that an Indonesian island chicken has probably had a much more natural life than one raised on a battery farm in England, people who wouldn’t think twice about buying something oven-ready become much more upset about a chicken that they’ve been on a boat with, so there is probably buried in the Western psyche a deep taboo about eating anything you’ve been introduced to socially.
7. And believe me, a good piece of chicken can make anybody believe in the existence of God.
8. Gabe brings home a chicken and Tommy Falk for dinner. Truth be told, I’m not unhappy to see any of them. Gabe, because it’s been so long since we’ve had dinner with him; the chicken because it’s not beans; and Tommy Falk because his presence makes Gabe cheerful and goofy.
9. I love eating chicken with my bare hands. It makes me want to snarl at people, even more than usual.
10. I wonder Pa went so easy. I wonder Grampa didn’ kill nobody. Nobody never tol’ Grampa where to put his feet. An’ Ma ain’t nobody you can push aroun’ neither. I seen her beat the hell out of a tin peddler with a live chicken one time ’cause he give her a argument. She had the chicken in one han’, an’ the ax in the other, about to cut its head off. She aimed to go for that peddler with the ax, but she forgot which hand was which, an’ she takes after him with the chicken. Couldn’ even eat that chicken when she got done. They wasn’t nothing but a pair of legs in her han’. Grampa throwed his hip outa joint laughin’.
11. On the nights I stuffed myself full of myths, I dreamed of college, of being pumped full of all the old knowledge until I knew everything there was to know, all the past cultures picked clean like delicious roasted chicken.
12. Breakfast isn’t breakfast without breakfast.
13. I’m not really a chicken-patty kinda girl,” I said.
14. I cut the chicken breasts into halves, season them with the dry seasonings, and bake them. When they’re ready and cooked all the way through, I wrap each half in bacon and fry them with onion slices until the bacon’s a nice, crispy, golden brown and the onions are soft and cooked through and through. The whole time they cook and simmer, I run the stick of butter around the chicken halves for even crispier edges and that buttery taste that brings anything to the next level- a strategy probably everybody black knows, and I guess it’s to my benefit there’s not many black people in this competition.
15. I lift the pot lids and see that I’ve made a fragrant yellow rice with cilantro. Somehow, black-eyed peas found their way into the rice, but I can tell from the smell that it works. The chicken looks juicy, and smothered in onions, it’s cooked perfectly without a thermometer. The green salad with a spinach base is crisp. Not a complicated meal, but one made for comfort.
16. he only things that succeed by sitting are chickens.
-Red White Love: The Love of Liverpool FC
17. People who won’t fight should at least scream and scold to avert problems that might ignite a fight. Truth is, if you present yourself as dust bin, people will load insults and nonsense inside. A sleeping dog can be slapped by a bold chicken.
18. A docile dog can be slapped by a courageous chicken.
19. Peg judged the Chicken Pie to be satisfactory, if old-fashioned, the braised chicken flavored with nutmeg, fresh peas and cream. The Croxons liked it, too, and most of it had disappeared. Nan would certainly be staying on. That would leave Peg free to make only sweet confections, jellies, and cakes. She had not lost her touch, for the pudding bowls had returned downstairs all but licked clean. She had kept back a second dish for herself, and dug her spoon into syrupy gooseberries inside claggy suet pudding.
20. I sliced the chicken with my fingers and put it into a small skillet to warm, separate a couple of eggs, and whisk the yolks quickly until they have lightened and thickened. Pour in a healthy glug of cream, then grate a flurry of cheese over the top, mixing it in. I zest a lemon from the bowl into the mix, and then squeeze in the juice. Some salt and pepper. I go over to the pots in my window and, with the scissors I keep there, snip off some parsley and chives, which I chop roughly and add to the mix. When the pasta is al dente, I drain it quickly, reserving a bit of the cooking water, and add it to a large bowl with a knob of butter, mixing quickly to coat the pasta. I add in the lemon sauce, tossing with a pair of tongs. When the whole mass comes together in a slick velvet tumble of noodles, I taste for seasoning, add a bit more ground black pepper, and put the shredded chicken on top with a bit more grated cheese.
A fork and a cold beer out of the fridge, and I take the bowl out to the living room, tossing Simca a piece of chicken, and settle on the couch to watch TV, twirling long strands of the creamy lemony pasta onto my fork with pieces of the savory chicken, complete comfort food.
21. Simply put, buy a natural bird. When it comes to chicken, we prefer air-chilled versus water-chilled birds. The latter method (which soaks the bird in 34-degree water after slaughtering) causes the bird to absorb water. If you see the phrase “contains up to 4% retained water” on the label, you know the bird was water-chilled. Besides the fact that you’re paying for the water, the water dilutes the chicken flavor and makes it hard to crisp up the skin during cooking.
22. It goes without saying that even those of us who are going to hell will get eternal life—if that territory really exists outside religious books and the minds of believers, that is. Having said that, given the choice, instead of being grilled until hell freezes over, the average sane human being would, needless to say, rather spend forever idling in an extremely fertile garden, next to a lamb or a chicken or a parrot, which they do not secretly want to eat, and a lion or a tiger or a crocodile, which does not secretly want to eat them.
23. The gilded confines of the Beauty Hall were not my preferred habitat; like the chicken that had laid the eggs for my sandwich, I was more of a free-range creature.
24. Cowards say it can’t be done, critics say it shouldn’t have been done, creator say well done.
25. All lies, freckled vows, crying-weeping on your toes
Expected jelly beans gusto, got yourself a life imperfecto
Too good a gal, too arrogant a gal
Too independent, too in need of Chanel
Took a careless ride, leaped for a perilous dive
Now look who thrived, who gave you a vibe.
26. The chickens? Why those poor little birds live shitty-ass lives before being hauled off in hellish fucking trucks to clusterfucks known as “slaughterhouses”, where they’re killed by turd-faced asshats who have no sense of decency, and their legs and wings are served at dumbfuck football parties.
27. There now,” she said with some satisfaction and, taking careful aim, she shut her eyes and chopped hard. It worked—but Marty was totally unprepared for the next event. A wildly flopping chicken—with no head—covered her unmercifully with spattered blood. “Stop thet! Stop thet!” she screamed. “Yer s’pose to be dead, ya—ya dumb headless thing.
28. Of all the herbs, Jasmine thought, basil was her soul mate. She rubbed her fingers over a leaf and sniffed deeply at the pungent, almost licorice scent. Basil was sensuous, liking to stretch out green and silky under a hot sun with its feet covered in cool soil. Basil married so well with her favorite ingredients: rich ripe tomatoes, a rare roast lamb, a meaty mozzarella. Jasmine plucked three leaves from her basil plant and slivered them in quick, precise slashes, then tucked them into her salad along with a tablespoon of slivered orange rind. Her lunch today was to be full of surprises. She wanted to impress as well as amuse this particular guest. They would start with a tomato soup in which she would hide a broiled pesto-stuffed tomato that would reveal itself slowly with every sip. Next she would pull out chicken breasts stuffed with goat cheese and mint. Then finish with poached pears, napped heavily in eau-de-vie-spiked chocolate.
29. You know,” she confided, “your recipe for Cajun Chicken Pasta? On page twenty-eight?” She nodded toward the book I’d just signed for her.
“Totally works with skim milk instead of heavy cream.” She nodded proudly. “Not that I tried the cream version. I’m sure in a blind taste test that’s the one I’d prefer, but skim works!”
I imagined the dish, using milk in the pan with the chicken fond, sun-dried tomatoes, oregano, and blackening spice, and could see where the milk would reduce into a nice thick sauce.
30. She too looked like a regular lady, living in the world- didn’t seem particularly with it or excitable or stellar. But that chicken, bathed in thyme and butter- I hadn’t ever tasted a chicken that had such a savory warmth to it, a taste I could only suitably identify as the taste of chicken. Somehow, in her hands, food felt recognized. Spinach became spinach- with a good farm’s care, salt, the heat and her attention, it seemed to relax into its leafy, broad self. Garlic seized upon its lively nature. Tomatoes tasted as substantive as beef.
31. The chicken thing let out a whispering cackle.
32. She sighed hard and shook her head, realized she was still staring at the same recipe card in her hand. She propped it against the monitor and read again, Elegant French Pork and Beans, by Carmine Grosz of Huron, South Dakota. She scanned the recipe, which called for haricot beans- a not inelegant bean, Olivia thought. Two kinds of sausage, two cuts of pork. Leeks. Well. This looked like a midwesternized cassoulet- definitely better than the usual “Casserole Corner” fare, which was largely made up of recipes containing endless and minute variations on the same hot dishes, issue after issue. For a couple of years there, chicken and broccoli had been all the rage: Chicken Broccoli Divan, Chicken Broccoli ‘Divine’, Chicken Broccoli Supreme (“Them’s fightin’ words,” Ruby had told Vivian). Chicken Broccoli Surprise, Chicken Broccoli ‘Rice’ Surprise (David: “Where’s the surprise? You’ve just listed all the ingredients in the title”). Elegant Company Chicken-Broccoli Casserole. “Which is the inelegant part,” Olivia had asked over the phone from college, because she was studying ambiguous reference in her Linguistic Description of Modern English class, “the company or the casserole?
33. Nobody seems to know which came first; egg or chicken – except of course for agents of the Time Saving Agency – who can find out anything about, well – anything. The only trouble is, they aren’t talking – however, you can take it from me – they know. The answer to these and other puzzles are kept safe and secure behind fire-walls and thick security doors secured with, er – time-locks, where one could possibly find answers to many other troubling questions, and not all of them necessarily relating to chickens.
34. Nine balls of julienned vegetables sit above a dense chicken vinaigrette. The plate looks like a game of noughts and crosses (tic-tac-toe). The table is bathed in a cloud of chicken vapour with a few sprays of eau-de-cologne of roasted chicken. In this way the chicken is everywhere and nowhere all at once.
35. Are you a fan of escargot?” he asked.
“Good.” His smile eased onto his lips again. “I get concerned when people eat snails.”
I glanced down the menu. “What about chicken?”
“I’m not as concerned.”
“Then I’m going to order the poulet a la fermiere.”
“What is that?”
I glanced back down at the menu. “It’s chicken with cream sauce. A farmwife’s bounty, it says, with vegetables and fresh herbs.
36. Grace rolled up her sleeves and joined the group in the kitchen, where Gladys, Pablo’s wife, had worked all day directing many other women who kept food pouring out the front and side door, onto a long series of folding tables, all covered in checkered paper table cloths. While some of the women prepped and cooked, others did nothing but bring food out and set it on the table- Southern food with a Mexican twist, and rivers of it: fried chicken, chicken and dumplings, chicken mole, shrimp and grits, turnip greens, field peas, fried apples, fried calabaza, bread pudding, corn pudding, fried hush puppies, fried burritos, fried okra, buttermilk biscuits, black-eyed peas, butter bean succotash, pecan pie, corn bread, and, of course, apple pie, hot and fresh with sloppy big scoops of local hand-churned ice creams.
As the dinner hours approached, Carter grabbed Grace out of the kitchen, and they both joined Sarah, Carter’s friend, helping Sarah’s father throw up a half-steel-kettle barbecue drum on the side of the house. Mesquite and pecan hardwoods were quickly set ablaze, and Dolly and the quilting ladies descended on the barbecue with a hurricane of food that went right on to the grill, whole chickens and fresh catfish and still-kicking mountain trout alongside locally-style grass-fed burgers all slathered with homemade spicy barbecue sauce. And the Lindseys, the elderly couple who owned the fields adjoining the orchard, pulled up in their pickup and started unloading ears of corn that had been recently cut. The corn was thrown on the kettle drum, too, and in minutes massive plumes of roasting savory-sweet smoke filled the air around the house. It wafted into the orchards, toward the workers who soon began pouring out of the house.
37. The chicken came first. Now, can we please move on?
38. The plate was filled with rich yellow rice, scarlet peppers, carrot dice, and silky golden onions. Two pieces of chicken, the skin perfectly, evenly browned, nestled in the bed of rice, scattered with minced parsley and cilantro. A few green leaves of salad were on the side, sheathed in vinaigrette, with shards of cheese shaved over the top.
The sear on the chicken was what he most appreciated: staff meal chicken and rice would be only the braised legs, delicious and shredding off the bone but not skillfully browned and crisped solely for the pleasurable contrast of the velvety meat and the rich, salted crackle of skin.
39. King David had gotten old. He was so cold and frail that the court appointed a young woman to snuggle with him in his bed. No, they didn’t have sex. Though the court did make a point of hiring someone beautiful, just to put a little sizzle in his chicken.
40. The simplest way to make a coward courageous is to convince them that you admire their courage.
41. The pollo alla Messinese, a sumptuous dish of chicken smothered in a tuna-flavored mayonnaise that I produced, would have fed three hundred guests at a wedding. Unfortunately there was to be no wedding.
Following the chicken incident, Mama banned me from slaughtering any more animals, so I turned to the dairy instead.
I made salty ricotta by boiling sheep’s milk with salt and skimming the whey with a bunch of twigs in the old tradition, just as Nonna Fiore had taught me. The ricotta I too made in great quantities, storing it in barrels in the roof of the cowshed.
42. It is a shame that Mama doesn’t use the hundreds of other fruits and vegetables and spices available from around the world. If it isn’t Indian, according to her, it isn’t good. I think she stared so long at the blueberries that they shriveled.
The butcher gave me three whole breasts of fresh free-range chicken. All of a sudden I have become very particular about ecological vegetables and free-range chickens. If they’ve petted the chicken and played with it before cutting it open for my eating pleasure, I’ll be happy to purchase its body parts. Even if I have a tough time understanding this ecological nonsense, I feel better for buying carrots that were grown without chemicals, and I can’t come up with a good reason to deny myself that happiness.
I marinated the chicken breasts in white wine and salt and pepper for a while and then grilled them on the barbecue outside. The blueberry sauce was ridiculously simple. Fry some onions in butter, add the regular green chili, ginger, garlic, and fry a while longer. Add just a touch of tomato paste along with white wine vinegar. In the end add the blueberries. Cook until everything becomes soft. Blend in a blender. Put it in a saucepan and heat it until it bubbles.
In the end because G’ma wouldn’t shut up about going back right away, I added, in anger and therefore in too much quantity: cayenne pepper. I felt the sauce needed a little bite… but I think I bit off more than the others could swallow.
I took the grilled chicken, cut the breasts in long slices, and poured the sauce over them. I made some regularbasmatiwith fried cardamoms and some regular tomato and onion raita.I put too much green chili in the raitaas well.
43. We did go to a skeezy yakitori place, however, which is where Iris discovered bonjiri, chicken tail, the fattest, juiciest bit of the chicken, and the best to grill on a stick and brush with sweetened soy sauce.
44. How specialized do restaurants get in Japan? Every weekday at lunchtime, people queue up on a side street just south of Ningyōchō Station, in an old Tokyo neighborhood. They’re waiting to get into Tamahide, a restaurant that (at lunchtime) serves one dish, oyakodon. Written with the characters for “parent” and “child,” oyakodon is a runny chicken omelet (get it?) served over rice. There are very few ingredients to this dish: chicken, egg, and rice, soy sauce, mirin, and sugar. There is no vegetarian version, no low-carb salad version, no side dishes other than a tiny dish of pickles perched atop the lid of your bowl. If you’re not in the mood for diced chicken meat, however, you can order the dish with chicken liver or ground chicken.
45. The oyakodan is delicious. It’s perfectly representative of the subtler side of Japanese food, not the guts side. I dipped my spoon through the omelet and pulled up a scrag of egg, a cube of chicken, and a clump of rice. It was one of those predestined combinations, like shrimp and grits, rounded out perfectly by the hint of soy sauce.
46. Alone in the kitchen, without Zod’s supervision, he found himself turning to the wholesome food of his childhood, not only for the comfort the simple compositions offered, but because it was what he knew so well as he set about preparing a homecoming feast for Zod’s only son. He pulled two kilos of java beans from the freezer. Gathered last May, shucked and peeled on a quiet afternoon, they defrosted in a colander for a layered frittata his mother used to make with fistfuls of dill and sprinkled with sea salt. One flat of pale green figs and a bushel of new harvest walnuts were tied to the back of his scooter, along with two crates of pomegranates- half to squeeze for fresh morning juice and the other to split and seed for rice-and-meatball soup. Three fat chickens pecked in the yard, unaware of their destiny as he sharpened his cleaver. Tomorrow they would braise in a rich, tangy stew with sour red plums, their hearts and livers skewered and grilled, then wrapped in sheets of lavash with bouquets of tarragon and mint. Basmati rice soaked in salted water to be steamed with green garlic and mounds of finely chopped parsley and cilantro, then served with a whole roasted, eight kilo white fish stuffed with barberries, pistachios, and lime. On the farthest burner, whole bitter oranges bobbed in blossom syrup, to accompany rice pudding, next to a simmering pot of figs studded with cardamom pods for preserves.
47. In the procession of pieces, which Ikegawa changes based on his read of each guest, you find crunch and chew, fat and cartilage, soft, timid tenderness and bursts of outrageous savory intensity. He starts me with the breast, barely touched by the flame, pink in the center, green on top from a smear of wasabi, a single bite buries a lifetime of salmonella hysteria. A quick-cooked skewer of liver balances the soft, melting fattiness of foie with a gentle mineral bite. The tsukune, a string of one-bite orbs made from finely chopped thigh meat, arrives blistered on the outside, studded with pieces of cartilage that give the meatballs a magnificent chew. Chochin, the grilled uterus, comes with a proto-egg attached to the skewer like a rising sun. The combination of snappy meat and molten yolk is the stuff taste memories are made of.
48. The humans were sitting cross-legged on the floor in a circle of soldiers, pointing at things and learning more Chimaera words: salt, rat, eat, which unfortunate combination led to Zuzana rejecting the meat on her plate.
“I think it’s chicken,” Mik said, taking a bite.
“I’m just saying there were a lot more rats around here earlier.”
“Circumstantial evidence.” Mik took another bite and said, in passable Chimaera and to guffaws of laughter, “Salty delicious rat.”
“It’s chicken,” insisted one of the Shadows That Live. Karou wasn’t sure which it was, but she was flapping her arms like wings, and even producing chicken bones to prove it.
49. The chicken does not exist only in order to produce another egg. He may also exist to amuse himself, to praise God, and even to suggest ideas to a French dramatist.
50. Emily’s got a chicken obsession.
51. Are you smarter than my chicken?” cried a weathered, wild-haired woman holding a nonplussed bird over her head. At her feet was a wooden board covered with numbers and arcane symbols. “Lay your bets! Test your wits against a trained fowl! One coppin a try! Are you smarter than my chicken? You might be in for a surprise!
52. And so went the rest of our conversation, with me having to constantly stop and explain what I’d just said. Each time, Dorian had some gentry equivalent for whatever I described. Some were more far-fetched than others, like when he said he was certain gorging on cake all day would achieve the same results as a blood-sugar test. He also had a very complicated explanation about how balancing a chicken in a tree was a well-established gentry method of determining gender. I was almost certain he knew there was no real equivalent to half the things I told him about and that he was making most of this up on the spot. He was simply trying to entertain me with the outlandish.
53. But my favorite remained the basic roast chicken. What a deceptively simple dish. I had come to believe that one can judge the quality of a cook by his or her roast chicken. Above all, it should taste like chicken: it should be so good that even a perfectly simple, buttery roast should be a delight.
54. Gabe says you make a mean chicken.”
Finn, who is sitting by the fireplace making smoke, comments for the first time. “Well, she certainly doesn’t make a nice one.
55. The German birds didn’t taste as good as their French cousins, nor did the frozen Dutch chickens we bought in the local supermarkets. The American poultry industry had made it possible to grow a fine-looking fryer in record time and sell it at a reasonable price, but no one mentioned that the result usually tasted like the stuffing inside of a teddy bear.
56. Whenever I have nothing better to do, I roast a chicken.
57. The are two types of vegetarians: (1) those who have beef with chicken; and (2) those who are too chicken to have beef.
58. An elephant is almost a unicorn!
59. I reach down and grab my cock
the rolling scenery in my mind
far from peaceful
60. He was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the insatiable appetite of fifteen.