The Thing with Feathers

That’d be me: Chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken.  All good, but that doesn’t alter the fact that I have eaten chicken the past four meals and am slated to eat chicken the next two.

Billy Goat Tavern in Chicago has its merits, but more as a place to view than a place to eat.

So I’m happy about the fried chicken that awaits, in tow.  It was marinated overnight in onions, scallions, salt, and pepper.

Oh, happy days!

I wouldn’t say that past week has been restful, it’s been different.  Lots of work done.  Berryman would blame Henry.  I have no such foil.

Tomorrow it’s back to the locked unit: A sex offender who is not responding to depression, a woman who forgets her name after ECT, a schizophrenic who may be low cognitively, a man whose family seeks to be his guardian.

Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!


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