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!