Tears in my Chicken

It went as well as it could making the BBQ Bacon Meatloaf last night.  I was so proud because by the time that Papa Bear got home from work shortly after 5pm, dinner was in the oven. I felt so domesticated and mother-like. Only one lifeline was used during the process: Phone-A-Father (mine, that is). WTF does mince mean? I had my guess and my dad agreed that mince could also be described as chop the shit out of.  Thank goodness my garlic lesson came a year or so ago when I was trying to be domesticated.  (The Garlic Lesson:  A garlic clove is NOT the whole garlic, it's just a little nugget off of the garlic.)  Anyway, after I minced my garlic it was time to add/combine all of the ingredients together. Woohoo! I'm making progress!  Time to add the ground (gag) chicken, which comes in a little tube. Challenge: open the tube of chicken. I used a kitchen scissor and was able to cut a little slit, but it wasn't cutting easy, so I thought that little slit would do. You know how they use those little baggie like things at the bakery to fancy decorate a cake? That's pretty much what the chicken looked like coming out of the tube.

I happen to notice that the directions/ingredients say 'ground chicken breast', so I check to see if that's what I'm using, knowing that it's too late if not. I'm using "Lean Ground Chicken." Close enough. Wait...does that say?! "YOUNG CHICKEN" I'm getting a little bit verklempt (no, I'm not Jewish, just like to throw out some yiddish once in a while). Why would they even put that on the label? Why don't they just put "whiny preschooler" or "sassy tween"?! I shed some tears, seriously, but I got through it. Or so I thought. Add the remaining ingredients: Worcestershire (?) sauce, 2 large egg whites - shit, did it say whites or yolks? Oh whatever. Add the egg whites to the mixture with the young chicken. OH MY GOD!?  Could they be related?!?  Another moment of silence, but at least this time I could be reuniting Young Chicken with its Never-Given-A-Chance younger sibling.

Supper wasn't totally healthy, but we are taking baby steps. We had Pillsbury flaky dinner rolls with it. Which turned out to be the best part of dinner, not counting dessert.  I picked the BBQ Bacon Meatloaf recipe for our first night of healthy meals because I knew we would like it. We had it about 1 1/2 years ago when I was pregnant with Grizzly and told I was just on the borderline for gestational diabetes. That's when Papa Bear was the cook. Those were the days!  Anyway, this didn't look or taste like what Papa Bear made. I followed the directions. At first I thought that maybe it didn't taste right to me because of the KitKat's that I snacked on while making my healthy dinner.  Princess Bear wasn't a fan, but she's not a fan of anything we put on her plate.  Then I got a glimpse of Papa Bear trying to swallow it without gagging to spare my feelings. Major fail.  Turns out that when he made it, he used ground TURKEY.  Probably not child turkey, either.  Grizzly Bear, however, was c h o w i n g  a w a y.  She loved it. She was screaming at me because I wasn't dishing it onto her plate fast enough.  (The picture of Grizzly below is of her shoveling the young chicken into her mouth, however, it could also be used to describe the rest of the family's reaction after tasting it.)

Our reward for making it through the healthy dinner without vomiting on the kitchen table was a big ass bowl of ice cream. I was saving my bigass bowl for later on, but wanted to reward Griz with a treat for being such an amazing eater. I dipped into Papa Bear's bowl and was scowled at and warned something like: "Don't be giving Grizzly the last few bites of my ice cream unless you plan on having more ready for her when this is gone in two seconds or unless you are prepared for a Grizzly Attack."  Not heeding to Papa Bear's warning, I continued to steal some of his ice cream to give to the Grizzly.  Sure, she happily ate it. But while she was eating the ice cream, she was still picking young chicken pieces off of her tray and eating them AT THE SAME TIME.  AND, there was no Grizzly Attack when the ice cream stopped coming.

I won't even get into what happened with my emotions when I put the young chicken down the garbage disposal.