I was rushing to get a whole chicken cleaned off and into the oven by 6:15 p.m. this evening. While I was patting the chicken dry with paper towels, Ari declared, “It’s a dog.”
“It’s not a dog,” I replied. “It’s a chicken.”
“It’s a dog,” he said.
It’s been over two months since he thought the spatchcocked chicken I was cooking was a dog. He’s grown so much in so many ways in that time. But, gosh darn it, the kid thinks every whole chicken is a dog.
“No buddy. We don’t eat dogs. It’s a chicken.”
“It’s a chicken,” Ari stated.
“That’s right,” I said.
He grabbed a head of garlic and the lemon I was getting ready to stuff inside of the chicken. He picked up the garlic and said, “It’s an onion.”
“It’s not an onion, it’s garlic,” I replied.
“It’s garlic,” Ari paused. He looked at the chicken in the baking dish and declared, “And it’s a dog.”
I give up.