The Chicken Woo-Woo Factor

 

The Chicken Woo-Woo Factor

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You must understand that since moving to Mexico I have the smallest kitchen possible. This means that I don’t have standard kitchen helpers, not even such items that my entire life I thought of as essentials, such as a mixer, a roasting pan or even muffin tins.

Basic. Only the bare basics. I do have a hand-held can opener and a wire whip. I could let the wire whip go. It is handy for beating eggs but my eggs are generally well-behaved and seldom require a whipping.

Through the moves, I managed to hang onto some of my cast iron pots. The other day I roasted a chicken in my large cast iron chicken pot. That’s what it is called, a chicken skillet, over-sized, intended for frying chicken pieces for Sunday dinner.

I like to roast chicken in a little liquid on low heat until the chicken falls off the bone, tender and juicy. When I bent into the oven to remove the delectable chicken, done to a turn, I said to myself, “We have a problem, Houston.”

The little liquid, accompanied by the fats and juices from the roasting process, was now doubled. I stood by the open oven door thinking how easy, how horrible it would be to drop the pan. The cast iron pan, the steaming hot chicken, the near-boiling liquid, all together posed a heavy conundrum: how to get the container from oven to cooling rack on the island without damage. Damage to me, my feet and legs, which suddenly seemed to be in the way.

I talked myself through the process, slowly. Doubled the pot holders. I pre-thought every muscle movement. True story. I breathed, in and out, took a deep breath and carefully lifted the heavy pot from oven rack to the island, no steps required, merely a full-body turn. Success.

Big Deal, you might be thinking, rolling your eyes, Big Deal.  Yes, it is a big deal.

It might be time for me to retire my cast iron, search for alternative low-weight pans. It might be a wake-up call. Here’s why: We ain’t getting any younger, chickiedee.

That evening I got this note from Kathy:

               We’re dropping like dominoes.

An eight pound circular wooden cutting board rolled off the open cupboard shelf and landed on my left foot while I was making breakfast. My throbbing foot is elevated and I cannot walk.

Crin, the night before, sliced her finger open, blood everywhere, and spent seven hours in the ER.

Janet was making bone broth in their Arizona home and when she lifted the pot to drain it, one handle broke off and the scalding liquid burned both her feet and ankles. The ER gave her morphine for pain and today she is in the Burn Unit figuring out how to deal with it.

Then Nancie’s daughter called her from Washington to report that she had tripped and spilled an entire pot of beans on her feet.

You’d better take it easy with a book today. We can’t handle any more casualties.

See you in the morning for breakfast.

No kidding, take it easy with a book. Are you seeing what I’m seeing? The Woo-Woo factor? The timing? What made me, for whom impulse control has never been a defining characteristic, “stop to think it through in minute detail” before removing my roasted chicken?

Woo-Woo? Lucky? Grace? A rose by any other name . . .

I like ceremony. An offering of tobacco and oranges. A sage smudge. Incense.  A heartfelt breathing of thanksgiving for all of us.

Served with a chicken sandwich.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

February 20, 2025

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