I actually roasted a FUCKING chicken last night, with stuffing and everything, (everything meaning gravy,potatoes and corn) and it came out great, I mean cooked just right, juicy and with the skin all crispy and really just Sunday dinner perfection. For half a moment I felt like some kind of 50's era perfect mom/wife hybrid until the realization that balancing plates on top of the egg carton/margarine container/lunch dishes in order to load them up with this supposed excellent dinner doesn't make me a great homemaker/cook like Mrs. Cleaver but more like a big fat messy ass slob who happened to shove a chicken in the oven for the right number of minutes.
Those dishes are waiting for me out there right now.
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