okieinexile
Well-Known Member
This is for the 5-Marys circle of the United Methodist Women
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Prayer and Self-Denial or
Chicken as a Means of Grace
By Bobby Neal Winters
When my wife and I had counseling sessions before we got married, the pastor, the Reverend Lavender, who was known in various irreverent circles as the Purple Preacher, had all sorts of good advice. He told us, "There is no such thing as a free lunch", because everything comes at a cost, and "You will be married to a different person five years from now", because everyone changes, but he didn't touch upon what I would call the "Chicken Issue."
The "Chicken Issue" was one that didn't arise in earlier times when marriages were arranged and couples only got to, shall we say, know each other after marriage. However, in these times, there is a good deal more, shall we say, familiarity before marriage, and there are fewer post-nuptial discoveries to be made.
As this is a sensitive matter, I will try to be delicate, but there is no way that I can avoid certain explicit language in the sequel if I am to communicate my meaning. However, in the meantime, I think that I might postpone the moment the moment offense by formulating the "Chicken Issue" in the following way, "Who gets the white meat and who gets the dark," or to put it bluntly, "Who gets the leg and who gets the breast?"
There, I said it, and I notice only one or two of you have fainted, and only a few of you are fanning yourselves like shock southern Belles.
In spite of the Reverend Lavender's neglect in this area, my wife and I are compatible in that way. My wife likes the drumstick, and I like the, uh, white meat. It is good when a couple is complimentary in this way. Because this is a serious matter and can put strain on a relationship.
It is not only marital bliss that can be threatened, but also family harmony. While I suppose that any piece of the chicken can be someone's favorite, it seems like drumsticks and breasts come at the top of the heap. Long-lasting and bloody family feuds have erupted over these particular chicken pieces.
Once, many years ago, when I was still in graduate school, my wife, baby daughter, and I were visiting my mother over the Thanksgiving holidays. At this same time, my cousin Mary Frances, her husband John, and younger daughter Debbie were also visiting. In those days, my mother was still at the height of her cooking powers, so the Thanksgiving meal was not distinguished by size but simply by having a turkey on the table. At one of my mother's encore feasts she served chicken. She didn't know how to only cook one chicken at a time so there were two or three breast and four or six drumsticks, but there were also a lot of healthy appetites.
After several iterations of bowl passing, and tea refilling, we came to a point where there was only one piece of chicken left, a breast, while there were still three people taking in nourishment, John, Debbie, and me. John was a white meat eater like myself, while Debbie was of unknown inclinations. John and I sat across from each other staring at the bowl containing the one piece, because there were some complicated rules at play. John and I were both guests at my mother's house, but I was somewhat less of a guest than he, so if it had been between him and me, the rules of hospitality say that the chicken should go to him. In cases such as these, when grown men are involved, it is not unusual for both to refuse and sneak back later. However, there is another rule that super-cedes this, which is, "Children come first."
So John and I were staring at the bowl, not worried that the other would get it, but concerned about the actions of Debbie. If she took the chicken, the game was over. Whereas, if she refused, it became a game of skill and cunning.
I believe it was my mother who broke the impasse, when she said, "Anybody want this last piece of chicken?"
Debbie's voice, with its sweet southern tones piped up, "I do."
John, who was naturally privy to more information about Debbie than I was, injected, "But, Debbie, you don't even like white meat."
"It's not for me," she said innocently. "It's for Frank."
Doubtlessly, many of you are quite understandably confused at this point at the late introduction of a new character. Certainly a case for poor organization can be made. However, I hope that I may be forgiven because Frank is not a human being. Frank is, or was I should say because he has long since gone to his reward, a dog. He was a dog who liked to drag the semi-decomposed carcasses of deer into the yard, roll on them, and chew on the nasty parts. Indeed, he was gnawing on a particularly fragrant morsel at the very time this discussion was taking place. In short, a succulent breast of chicken would've been wasted on his, shall we say, earthy tastes.
At this point, John interceded, and said, "No, Debbie, this is people food," and with Solomon-like wisdom, the breast was divided between the two of us.
This last story brings me to an insight. That Thanksgiving was three years to the day after my father had been diagnosed with cancer, and he was not with us. I think of this now, because my father's favorite pieces of chicken weren't drumsticks or breasts. They were necks and backs. You see my brother liked drumsticks and I liked breasts, and my father found a new solution to the problem of dividing up the chicken. This solution was love manifested as self-sacrifice.
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Prayer and Self-Denial or
Chicken as a Means of Grace
By Bobby Neal Winters
When my wife and I had counseling sessions before we got married, the pastor, the Reverend Lavender, who was known in various irreverent circles as the Purple Preacher, had all sorts of good advice. He told us, "There is no such thing as a free lunch", because everything comes at a cost, and "You will be married to a different person five years from now", because everyone changes, but he didn't touch upon what I would call the "Chicken Issue."
The "Chicken Issue" was one that didn't arise in earlier times when marriages were arranged and couples only got to, shall we say, know each other after marriage. However, in these times, there is a good deal more, shall we say, familiarity before marriage, and there are fewer post-nuptial discoveries to be made.
As this is a sensitive matter, I will try to be delicate, but there is no way that I can avoid certain explicit language in the sequel if I am to communicate my meaning. However, in the meantime, I think that I might postpone the moment the moment offense by formulating the "Chicken Issue" in the following way, "Who gets the white meat and who gets the dark," or to put it bluntly, "Who gets the leg and who gets the breast?"
There, I said it, and I notice only one or two of you have fainted, and only a few of you are fanning yourselves like shock southern Belles.
In spite of the Reverend Lavender's neglect in this area, my wife and I are compatible in that way. My wife likes the drumstick, and I like the, uh, white meat. It is good when a couple is complimentary in this way. Because this is a serious matter and can put strain on a relationship.
It is not only marital bliss that can be threatened, but also family harmony. While I suppose that any piece of the chicken can be someone's favorite, it seems like drumsticks and breasts come at the top of the heap. Long-lasting and bloody family feuds have erupted over these particular chicken pieces.
Once, many years ago, when I was still in graduate school, my wife, baby daughter, and I were visiting my mother over the Thanksgiving holidays. At this same time, my cousin Mary Frances, her husband John, and younger daughter Debbie were also visiting. In those days, my mother was still at the height of her cooking powers, so the Thanksgiving meal was not distinguished by size but simply by having a turkey on the table. At one of my mother's encore feasts she served chicken. She didn't know how to only cook one chicken at a time so there were two or three breast and four or six drumsticks, but there were also a lot of healthy appetites.
After several iterations of bowl passing, and tea refilling, we came to a point where there was only one piece of chicken left, a breast, while there were still three people taking in nourishment, John, Debbie, and me. John was a white meat eater like myself, while Debbie was of unknown inclinations. John and I sat across from each other staring at the bowl containing the one piece, because there were some complicated rules at play. John and I were both guests at my mother's house, but I was somewhat less of a guest than he, so if it had been between him and me, the rules of hospitality say that the chicken should go to him. In cases such as these, when grown men are involved, it is not unusual for both to refuse and sneak back later. However, there is another rule that super-cedes this, which is, "Children come first."
So John and I were staring at the bowl, not worried that the other would get it, but concerned about the actions of Debbie. If she took the chicken, the game was over. Whereas, if she refused, it became a game of skill and cunning.
I believe it was my mother who broke the impasse, when she said, "Anybody want this last piece of chicken?"
Debbie's voice, with its sweet southern tones piped up, "I do."
John, who was naturally privy to more information about Debbie than I was, injected, "But, Debbie, you don't even like white meat."
"It's not for me," she said innocently. "It's for Frank."
Doubtlessly, many of you are quite understandably confused at this point at the late introduction of a new character. Certainly a case for poor organization can be made. However, I hope that I may be forgiven because Frank is not a human being. Frank is, or was I should say because he has long since gone to his reward, a dog. He was a dog who liked to drag the semi-decomposed carcasses of deer into the yard, roll on them, and chew on the nasty parts. Indeed, he was gnawing on a particularly fragrant morsel at the very time this discussion was taking place. In short, a succulent breast of chicken would've been wasted on his, shall we say, earthy tastes.
At this point, John interceded, and said, "No, Debbie, this is people food," and with Solomon-like wisdom, the breast was divided between the two of us.
This last story brings me to an insight. That Thanksgiving was three years to the day after my father had been diagnosed with cancer, and he was not with us. I think of this now, because my father's favorite pieces of chicken weren't drumsticks or breasts. They were necks and backs. You see my brother liked drumsticks and I liked breasts, and my father found a new solution to the problem of dividing up the chicken. This solution was love manifested as self-sacrifice.
