Ode to chicken, Kentucky Fried

Last night, on our way home from the gym (Yes, we joined a gym last weekend. They made us an offer we couldn't refuse. They have a dry sauna AND free tanning. I'll look like a raisin in no time.) Tony and I realized we were really, really hungry. And that the only food at home was frozen vegetables and spaghetti noodles, which didn't sound great alone or together. We had what you might call a situation.

We drive past every imaginable fast-food joint on the way home from the gym. Everything from gyros to tacos to burgers. Lots of burgers. But nothing quite hits the spot the same way a giant bucket of fried chicken does. Tony and I are huge Kentucky Fried Chicken fans. We can kill most of an eight piece extra-crispy bucket in about 10 minutes and then roll around on the floor in greasy ecstasy, licking our fingers and clutching our distended bellies.

I think part of the appeal is that we can tell ourselves that it isn't as bad as other fast food because you can easily identify the part of the animal you are eating. With a McNugget, there is a great deal of ambivalence. Same with a Whopper. With KFC, though, you have easily labeled parts - breasts, wings, drummies, etc. And there is no way they chopped up other parts of the bird and re-formed them into some sort of drummette or breastie. (This is getting weird, isn't it?)

The other part of the appeal is that it tastes so frickin' awesome. I mean, is there any other fast food that tastes equally good hot OR cold? I just ate a leftover wing for lunch, straight from the fridge (and over the sink like a bachelor) and it tasted just as good as last night, but in a wonderfully different way. Can you imagine reaching into the fridge to grab last night's Big Mac and munching away over the sink? I can imagine grabbing it and then yarfing over the sink, but that's something entirely different.

Tony and I can also divide and conquer with KFC. When we order pizza, he likes different toppings than I do, but eats more of the pie. If we split the pizza in half by toppings, he'll have to eat at least one piece that he hates. But, with chicken, he likes white meat and I like my KFC like I like my men - dark and crunchy. (Just look at Tony and you'll know what I mean.) So he eats the wings and breasts and I eat the drumsticks and thighs. No arguing, and no elbowing in the nose over the bucket.

In fact, I don't know why we don't eat more KFC. I think we've honestly eaten it about three times in the past year, whereas we've eaten Taco Bell at least once a week (they have dairy-free chicken tacos now for the T-man). I mean, my cardiologist is glad we don't eat there more often, but my taste buds are sad.

I don't think we'll make a habit of it, though. I have a feeling eating KFC at nine at night will be bad for my weight-loss plan. And my sleep patterns. I had such bad nightmares last night I aggravated my groin pull trying to get away from the bad man standing on my bed. (I still suspect it might have been Tony, but he denies any involvement in my dream.) In any case, there was a lot of screaming.

The leftovers today made up for that, though. Sweet, sweet leftover chicken. I shall miss you.