It’s 6:37PM on Tuesday.
Will they all be gone? My heart is pounding. My stomach growling. My family-waiting.
Will you be the 3:30PM unsalted bird? Or, will I be so lucky to score the 6PM original flavor succulent beast? Hot. Piping hot; with juices dripping all over my shirt and spilling into the passenger seat. You always get shit all over me, but I forgive you rotisserie!
Will you be dried out? Will your wings be charcoal bits? I doesn’t matter as long as you provide for my family with your succulent breasts.
I run to the display and see you sitting there waiting for me. You’re sweating and steamy in your black plastic bottom with that provocative translucent top.
I look down at you- you’re the 5:30! I grab your handle and gently place you in my cart. The weight of you is impressive. You’re the best one under the lamp. The plumpest fatty in the lot. Oh! Rotisserie chicken, I’m so happy that when we get home you’ll still be hot.
Without you, we’d be eating processed cheese and cereal. You’ve turned Tuesday night into a culinary miracle.
You give and give. On Wednesday, you’ll be soup. On Thursday, you’ll be tacos and Friday- who the hell knows!?
Oh, rotisserie chicken you’re the best friend this lazy gal can have. Tell your friends to stay put under that lamp, because I’m coming…probably Saturday and maybe Sunday too. I’m coming rotisserie chicken, I’m coming for you.