I’ve gotten in the habit of thawing out a few big bags of chicken breasts, throwing on a bit of seasoning and grilling them on my beloved smoker. I try to do this on a Sunday night when I’m super stressed out about the coming week. Mom life, am I right? That way when I’m late at the dairy during the week the other two people that reside in this house don’t starve.
A note before hand. My son isn’t any help in the kitchen. Despite his best intentions he’s a hot mess. I’m sure you all could have guessed this, but I’ve gotten questions in the past.
On this night I was in a hurry to get things on the grill. I washed and dried the meat with the greatest of care. And also without gagging a whole lot. The gleaming breasts sat undisturbed on the counter, ready for my splendid blend of chopped garlic, salt, pepper and a brush of olive oil. All the while I was being watched, intently, by the toddler and his back up Boxer (Ellie the door opening sidekick) and Karl (the super judgy Boston Terrier).
Well as it would turn out the tender cuts of meat where all too tempting for the ringleader. Who up until this point had been setting on a bar stool nudged up to the counter where I was working. He was being uncharacteristically well behaved and quite. I smiled, lovingly at him. I was just so proud he was being so good. Only once had I told him not to touch the raw chicken and hadn’t had to remind him not to feed the stickers off his apple to the dogs.
Wrong move. My innocent smile set off a chain reaction of events I never saw coming. In what seemed like slow motion, my charming little boy sprang from his roost like a wild animal to dip his tiny fingers into the raw chicken.
The things running through my mind at that time were as follows
“I’m never, ever cooking chicken again”
“Grill for sale”
“This is why I got locked in my room as a child, so I wouldn’t die”
I screamed. He laughed. I dove across the bar at him in a desperate attempt to grab his unclean hands. I missed. He laughed wildly with a crazed look in his eye. The world seemed to stop and he seemed miles away as I grabbed at him again. At this point I would have been happy to latch a hold of an arm, a shirt sleeve or his soft blond hair.
Enough time had passed that he was now on the run and had entered the brightly lit livingroom when he suddenly stopped, turned around and looked me dead in the eye. I knew the war had been lost by the twinkle in his big blue eyes. And then as a final insult he stuck his nasty raw chicken hands. In. His. Mouth.
If your keeping score Toddler: 1 Mom: 0