So the other night it was time for me to cook my first real dinner since mini cooper #2 was born. (Henceforth referred to as "Claire".) Sure I had nuked a few hotdogs, but that was the extent of my culinary exploits. This night I was going to tackle: the roast chicken. Mmm...my mouth was watering just thinking about the bird that would soon be slathered (and I mean slathered) in olive oil, salt and pepper, lemon zest, hot pepper, garlic, rosemary... I had gotten both girls miraculously down for naps mid-afternoon. The perfect time to be sticking my new friend into the oven. I was having a grand old time being proud of myself for having such a peaceful afternoon with napping children and plenty of time for preparing a scrumptious dinner.
Now time to take the bird out of its cold water bath. I unwrapped the chick and began to prep it for its impending doom. I went to remove the giblets. Hmm. Try again. I went to remove the giblets. No. Not working. The #$%#$ thing is stuck in the @#$@%# bird! Gah! The $%#$%&& bag of giblets was still frozen in the cavity of the chicken. Everywhere else was nice and defrosted, all except for this bag of vile blechness. I pulled. I braced myself on the kitchen sink. I pulled again. The bag ripped. Giblets fell into the sink while the other half of the bag remained stuck to the insides of the bird. I muttered curses under my breath. (I was keenly aware of my toddler who repeats *everything* I say. I may think she is napping but she could be in her crib scribbling down everything for future parroting.) I pulled again but now with less to grab. Claire woke up at this point and began crying/screaming for her afternoon snack. I washed my hands and ran to pick her up, but then I had to put her down and immediately return to my giblets while she started crying again. I started wondering what icky body parts these were anyway. Pull again. Panick sets in. I have to get this stupid bird in the oven by 3:30 or Ginny will eat late, and then bedtime will be late. I started praying: "Please! If You'll just help me with this bag of giblets--" okay I stopped myself. Praying to God to help me pull out a frozen bag of chicken bits seems ridiculous even in this state of poultry induced insanity.
I have failed parenthood. On my first trial as a parent of two under two, I have failed miserably.
Nearly in tears of sorrow and anger, I texted my husband about the $%^&$%& giblets. Can I just leave them in?? His text replies made me think he thought this was humorous. I turned to a different source of consolation. I began to google giblets. Will I kill my family if I leave the stupid bag in there? I frantically paged through cites reading stories similar to my own, and finally from my minutes of thorough research I discovered that as long as the bag the giblets is in is paper, we won't die. So I slathered up the bird, and threw it into the oven with a heavy heart. Wait--*was* the giblet bag made of paper?
So that's how life with two under two has begun. I bet you didn't know a tiny bag of blech could make you feel like a failure. Now you know.
Author's note: the chicken was spectacular.
