I Just Wanted to Roast a Chicken

Since yesterday was a holiday, I decided to make one of my favorite cold weather comfort foods - roast chicken. Well, one of my favorite comfort foods that my 13 month old will also eat. I put the chicken in at 4 pm, so it would be ready by 5:30 (we are early eaters in my house since bedtime has been moved up to 6:30.) All was going well until I went into the kitchen at 5:15 to check on the chicken.

My kitchen is not terribly large (about 12' x 12') but a good size for a house built in 1941. But it feels really small when one is contending with all of the chicken-roasting chaos in my house. First, there is the cat. The cat usually keeps to himself and isn't much of a food-beggar. Unless I am roasting chicken. Then he wanders around the main floor meowing in this really low pitched voice. He walks in circles and drools (I kid you not, he drools). He rubs himself on every available surface, including my legs. This means I trip over him or just plain kick him at least once during the roasting process.

Second, there is the dog. She is also enamored of roast chicken, but she has an approach-avoidance complex regarding the actual roasting. She desperately wants to be in the kitchen to smell the lovely roasting smells and to be there to catch any loose pieces that might randomly fall off the chicken. However, she is scared to death of the overhead oven fan, which has to be on during the roasting. So, the dog stands in the hallway entrance to the kitchen and sticks her nose as far in as she can without her feet entering the room. Then she bobs and weaves in the doorway in the hopes of sniffing the best sniffs without being attacked by the fan. Then she moves to the dining room entrance and repeats the move. Then back to the other entrance (the long way - through the living room, of course - she can't step foot in the kitchen). The dog also thinks it is necessary to attack the cat when he gets too close to the chicken because the cat might steal her fortuitous piece of chicken when it drops to the floor.

The cat and the dog I can usually handle. However, adding in a 13 month old toddler to the mix pushed me over the edge. My son has just learned to walk well (after weeks of launching himself between walls and furniture) and he practices his new skill whenever awake. He also likes to be near me, which is fine, unless I am opening a 400 degree oven to check on the chicken.

Yesterday, I also discovered my son has an intense love of caramel corn flavored rice cakes. He stands in front of the cabinet where he knows they are stored and begs for them. And he has a very specific way of eating them. After I give him half a rice cake, he holds it in both hands and kind of licks/sucks all of the edges while constantly rotating it in his sticky little hands. After it is good and juicy, he continues to rotate it while taking little nibbles off of the edges. All of this must be accomplished while walking in circles and humming.

So, it is 5:15 and time to check the chicken. The dog is bobbing and weaving in the doorway. The cat is rubbing himself on the oven and sitting like a prairie dog to see inside. The toddler is walking in circles behind me and humming. I don my oven mitts. Using one leg to keep my son away from the oven and one arm to keep the cat away from the oven, I balance myself and reach in to poke the chicken thighs. Clear juice runs out, so we are done.

Now comes the tricky part. I really need two hands to take the chicken out. I give the cat one good shove so he is out of the way while keeping one leg out to protect the toddler. I reach to grab the chicken. The dog is still bobbing and weaving. I have the chicken halfway to the stove top and I am using a foot to shut the oven door. At that moment, my son tips over from dizziness and drops his rice cake. The dog forgets the fan and lunges for the rice cake, believing it is a chunk of chicken just for her. The dog knocks over the toddler, the cat rushes in to claim the piece of "chicken" on the floor, the toddler bumps his head on the floor, the dog snaps at the cat and eats the rice cake whole, and I lose my balance just as I place the chicken on the stove top. My feet slip out from under me, I hit my elbow on the not-quite-closed oven door, and my butt hits the floor.

My son is screaming (mostly because the dog ate his rice cake, the head bump wasn't that bad), the cat freaks out and runs upstairs (good riddance), and the dog retreats to the doorway. I crawled over to my son to comfort him, but he just points at the rice cakes. I struggle to my feet, hand him another rice cake and he stops crying. I lay back down on the kitchen floor and think seriously about spending the night in a hotel. By myself.