A Chicken Ranch, not THE Chicken Ranch

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for therapy

My ten teen is now a tween-ager.  She turned 11.  According to her, “Babies have teeny birthday candles on their cakes.  I want something more grown up.”  So we had sparkler candles on her cake.  I’m just glad there was a fire extinguisher at the ready, a precaution taken after the number of candles required on adult birthday cakes in this house sets off the overhead sprinklers.

 She asked for a special birthday treat, that we all go out to eat.  This is not an unusual request given my inability to cook.  Every special occasion is followed by a request to eat out:  Arbor Day, the Equinox, first day of Spring, summer, fall, winter, Secretary’s Day, National Hot Dog Day, Bring Your Pet to Work Day, National Pickle Day, first day of the month, last day of the month, Pay day, Anniversary of Wal-Mart, Free Willie Day, as well as the regular normal everyday holidays.

She has definitely crossed over into the Tween-ager years of her life as evidenced by her birthday loot:  8 bottles of fingernail polish, 1 bottle of zebra striped nail overlays, nail file, lip gloss, packets of mud facials, skin exfoliate cream, facial moisturizer, skin peeling masks, cell phone (not the flip, track or Wal-Mart kind), subscription to “17 magazine”, and an iPod 2.   Gone are the Barbie Doll days, I guess.

However, the present she was most excited about was becoming the proprietor of her own business.  Dr. Hubby constructed the Donald Trump Condo for Chickens, complete with semi-covered courtyard, modern laying/nesting cubbies, fans, security lights, guarded entrance, and eco-friendly indoor/outdoor space.  He purchased 12 chickens, feed, and a ledger for her to record her expenses and income for IRS purposes.  She will even have her own bank account.

She was even more excited when she learned she would soon be getting 12 eggs a day.  Unfortunately her favorite little chicken, the one she called Sweet Heart, has turned out to be Sweet Boy, the rooster.  Loss of one egg per day.

Today the newest member of the free enterprise system sat all afternoon watching her business, listing potential customers, and figuring ways to cut costs and increase profits.

At this point I am in a quandary.  What do I tell people when they asked “What was your tween-ager’s favorite birthday gift?”  What do I say?  She now runs the Chicken Ranch?”

P. S. If you aren’t from around La Grange, Texas or you missed the Dolly Parton and Burt Reynolds movie, you won’t understand my concern.

Frying Purple Chicken Beater!

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for red wine with meat, white wine with fish, blindfolds with chicken!

Some of you have suffered through my tales of cooking woe. I'd like to say I have improved just like I would like to say Vanna White is grooming a replacement, but we know that isn't true. She's still there and I'm still turning chicken purple. I'll explain.

I recently visited my friend, Wanda Argersinger (Land of Confusion blog). She is a good cook so I watched carefully as she prepared a chicken dish. It didn't look too hard; chicken, simple batter, wine, mushrooms, spices, beef bouillon, I could do that. I would do that, just as soon as I got back home.

Most of my culinary disasters seem to occur when I try to substitute or take short cuts. This time I would do just as Wanda did. Well, except I couldn't find the same Sweet Red Wine with the footprint on the stopper so I found a red wine with some kind of kangaroo on it. And I didn't have an iron skillet so I used my super heavy aluminum one. Oh, and I didn't remember exactly the order of ingredients so I dumped everything in at once. I did buy a meat hammer and I beat the stuffing out of those chicken breasts just like Wanda. When they hit the skillet, those chicken breasts were as flat as mine were as a teenager.

My first hint that something was going south, and I don't mean the Yankees, was when my chicken turned purple. When Wanda added wine to her dish, her breasts did not turn purple, the chicken breasts not Wanda's although they may have. She was wearing clothes so it was hard to tell and I was intent on her cooking methods. My mushrooms remained perfectly tan, not brown, and did not even slightly curl like her mushrooms. The dish was tasty but I'm telling you, purple chicken is a definite appetite depressant so everybody ate with their eyes shut.

For my next attempt at Wanda's dish, I found the right Sweet Red Wine with the footprint on the stopper while I was at Wal-Mart between trips down the great elbow smashing slides at Great Wolf Park in Grapevine. I bought several bottles and hoped I didn't get stopped by the authorities. Once back at home I invested in a cast iron skillet. Wanda also e-mailed me the correct sequence of ingredients. Got it! Right? Wrong.

Back to the kitchen, more breast pounding, batter slathering, and a hotter skillet. This time I managed to get the chicken to turn mostly brown with just a tinge of purple after the wine was added. The mushrooms still did not turn brown but I did manage to turn the beef broth into gravy, sort of. Wanda didn't mention it, but I think there must be a precise ratio of flour, water, and beef broth to make gravy that is not the consistency of wall paper paste. Just sitting on the table, it looked like gray purple tinted dog barf. Again, a tasty dish that, eaten with blindfolds on, was delicious.

This evening I decided to give it one more try. The newly opened wine bottle was on the counter and only half gone. The beatings began in earnest. The children came running into the kitchen at the sound of my pounding. "Hey, Mama's cooking again," said the ten-teen. "Can we help?" "Sure," I replied as she hurried off to get the fire extinguisher. "Great," said the ever helpful six-year-old, "I'll get the blindfolds!"

The radio began playing a golden oldie "It was a one-eyed; one horned, flying purple people eater, pigeon toed, under-clothed frying purple chicken beater." At least I think that's what I heard. Only a smidgeon of wine made it to the skillet, so I'm not sure.