Look Out Below!

Val has a bee in her bonnet tonight. More like a chicken in her gizzard. A wadded-up mess of poultry skin in her craw. A thorn in her side would be welcome, to dislodge the offending blockage.

The Thevictorian family enjoys an occasional meal of Chinese takeout. The Pony is partial to sweet-and-sour chicken, Hick prefers Hunan chicken, and Val fluctuates between hot-and-sour soup in cold weather, and various disappointments in warm. Our Chinese storefront of choice is generally a tasty alternative to the one preferred by the Backroads High faculty on parent conference night. That other place serves up what seems to be fried rice swimming in the oil it was fried in. Every item I have ever received has been surrounded by a moat of shiny liquid. I don't care how much others rave about it, that place is not for me. That food goes through me like grease through a goose.

Now we have issues with Our Chinese. That place is going downhill faster than a rock that Sisyphus has just pushed to the top of the hill.

The issue is chicken. I don't like their cashew chicken because I can't find the chicken. Just like Glen Campell as LaBeouf in the original True Grit was warned by that squirrel-headed bastard at The Monarch Boarding House that he would hurt his eyes looking for the chicken in the chicken and dumplings...I must warn others that looking for the chicken under those three cashews and assorted vegetables (meaning flat strips of carrot and celery and a few water chestnut discs) might cause blindness. If you have eagle eyes, you might find several cubes similar to those found in a generic chicken pot pie, or in Campbell's Chicken and Noodle Soup.

I have tried the Hunan chicken, but since Hick also partakes of this delicacy, it means they whip it up as one batch, and I invariably get all the vegetables in my container with white rice, while Hick gets all the meat in his container with fried rice. And you don't go taking meat away from Hick unless you are prepared to lose a hand. It would be safer to tug on Superman's cape, spit into the wind, and pull the mask off that ol' Lone Ranger.

The hot braised chicken and General Tso's chicken present a bonnet bee of the first order. The chicken is fried and soaked in sauce. The soaking, I assume, is to soften it until it appears edible. It used to be actual pieces of white meat chicken in a batter. I would even settle for dark meat chicken in a batter. But lately I get chicken skin in a batter, fried, soaked in sauce. That's all I can imagine this substance to be. There's no visible meat if you can manage to cut it open. It chews like a piece of rawhide. I would like to challenge them to find the chicken. Recent blindness is not an excuse.

Hope springs eternal every time Hick calls on his way home and asks if we want him to pick up Chinese. Every time, I think I will give them one more chance. Tonight, their chance ran out. I could not finish what I put on my plate, even though I risk losing my membership in the Clean Plate Club. My sweet, sweet Juno is in for a treat. I hope these fried skins are not any more dangerous than chicken bones.

It's back to soup for me. At least I can see the tofu.