I’m having a dinner guest, which means I’m doing the cooking. Incidentally, I’m cooking a meal for someone who is a very good cook. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy cooking, I just don’t claim to have any special skill. I keep things simple, but manage to come up with edible end results for the most part. But my upcoming dinner guest is the kind of person who says things like “Oh, I’m just going to braise a couple chicken thighs” the way I say “Oh, I’ll just open this jar of spaghetti sauce and pour it on my noodles.”
“So what are we having?” they ask eagerly.
“Oh, chicken.” I say.
“Okay, okay. What are we talking, here? Chicken thighs? Breasts?”
I wonder to myself what part of the chicken these little strip-things came from.
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” I answer. I’m going for Coy, but it comes across more Bitch.
I immediately backpedal.
“Chicken breasts,” I say as I quickly consult the package. I wonder why they care so much. Just fucking eat this food that I will self-consciously cook for you, please.
And then I remember that they offered to bring adult beverages to complement the meal. Actually, I think I might have asked them to bring adult beverages to complement the meal.
What does one drink with Inferiority Complex Chicken, anyway?