Chicken and column both in the bag

Cavanman's Diary

It’s Thursday evening and I’m sat in the box room/office of my house. On Thursdays, I sometimes treat myself to some Italian food. I’m not talking traditional Italian gastronomy, I should clarify. I mean I go to an Italian chip shop; or, if I’m feeling particularly lazy, I just ring a delivery and let them bring that old Dolce Vita to me.

But not this Thursday. You see, this newspaper goes to print on Tuesday afternoon so I knew Monday was going to be hectic and I better get the Cavanman’s Diary out of the way. There were only two problems: 1) I could not, for the life of me, think of anything to write about and 2) I had to cook the dinner.

I know, I know, I know. You’re shocked by both developments. You’re reading this and you’re thinking, “wait a second, we’re only five paragraphs into this weekly dirge and already he’s hit us with two highly unlikely statements”.

And I understand where you’re coming from, genuinely I do, but I assure you both of these utterances are true. This week, I was out of ideas, having written about the 1947 All-Ireland final (yawn) again last week and not being due another fishing or handball column until at least June. And on the second point, yes, shockingly, I had been tasked with making the dinner this particular evening. Writer’s block, I am well used to but chef’s block was a new one on me.

“What will we do for food?” I had asked my better half earlier on. She informed she was going to Navan to do some shopping and wouldn’t be home till 7.30 or so. I heard that and one thought – and one thought only – struck me: I’ll hit the chipper.

Thursday evening is always an ideal time for a takeaway, I find. Yeah, Saturday nights are good but it tends to be busy. Sunday nights, it’s bad eating with a load of work to do the next morning. There are some who advocate Wednesdays (“break up the week”) and I do appreciate that theory too but, for me, Thursday is the sweet spot.

So, I had it in my head to enjoy some prime cuisine – and it would have saved time, too, with this bloody column to write and nothing to write about. But no. My best-laid plans were soon up in smoke (almost literally).

“There’s a chicken in the fridge that has to be used,” she announced. I should explain that there was an air of finality about the way she said this, the emphasis on ‘has’. I knew immediately there was no point arguing. I thought of the battered sausage I had intended savouring, the quarter-pounder with cheese that would not now be ordered, the milkshake unpoured, the garlic-cheese chip – that Mediterranean staple – that I’d never get to enjoy.

But what could I do? I had no option but to mentally say ‘arrivederci’ to Little Italy. Mamma Mia!

“Right,” I said, the stress already beginning to build, “sure what time will you be home at? I’m just writing a column and…”

She cut me off. The column was not her concern, basically. I was told in no uncertain terms to put the chicken on. And the vegetables.

“Right, right,” I said, with a sigh of resignation. “Ring me when you’re on the way home.”

I put down the phone, opened the fridge, saw no chicken and then picked up the phone again.

“Well,” she said.

“Well,” I said. “Where’s the chicken?”

“In the bottom drawer of the fridge,” she replied, a little testily.

“Okay, sound, talk to you later. I’ll try to get this dinner on now because I’m writing this column and…”

“Right,” she interrupted, “talk to you in a while.”

I put down the phone and picked up the chicken. It was one of these “cook in the bag” set-ups. I turned on the oven and put the bird on a tray. She had told me to set the timer for 90 minutes but, not having a degree in Advanced Metaphysics, I was unable to figure out the digital dials on the cooker so just set the alarm on my phone.

Then, I returned to this column, which had now reached 632 painstakingly chiselled out words. I added another line – this one - and suddenly remembered the vegetables.

After racing back down the stairs, I quite efficiently located the carrots and parsnips but that was as far as it got. By now, my head was addled trying to multi-task.

Flustered, I rang her again. This time, there was no friendly greeting.

“What?”

“Where’s the yoke for peeling the vegetables?”

“In the drawer with the cutlery.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

This over-and-back went on for 30 seconds or so. I swore the peeler was not in that drawer. I had checked it and re-checked it and it simply wasn’t there and, like a proper principled journalist, I was willing to die for this belief. Then I noticed that it was, in fact, there.

I muttered something vague and ended the call. Peeling complete, I legged it back upstairs, almost tripping over the dog who was stationed at the kitchen door keeping an eye on this whole caper and gave me a look that seemed to say “what’s wrong with you now?”.

I still had no idea what I was going to write about. All I knew for certain was that I had to come up with something quick – but this unexpected culinary diversion was eating into my time.

So, I continued trying to reach my word count, each syllable chiselled out of granite. Suddenly, just as I got to where I am now – 860 words or thereabouts – the alarm sounded on my phone. Damn it, the chicken!

At that, I glanced out the window and there was my good lady pulling into the driveway, slightly ahead of time. I skedaddled down the stairs again, past the dog (“what eegiting are you at now?” she seemed to say this time) and opened the oven.

To my surprise, the chicken seemed almost ready for serving, just as she walked in the door (wife, not dog).

“The dinner is ready!” I announced triumphantly, in the sort of tone Edmund Hilary would probably have adopted had he had a mobile phone when he scaled Everest in 1953.

“I didn’t have time to heat the plates, I was trying to get my column done at the same time as cooking,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, you said that,” she replied, wiping down the mess I had left on the counter.

“Let me just finish it before we eat,” I suggested. I returned to the laptop and to my surprise, found the column was nearly ready for serving, too. Admittedly, both of this evening’s creations were a bit on the dry side, tasty in places but overall quite bland. But they were done, that was the main thing.

“How’s the dinner?” I asked, pushing my luck as I sat down.

“Lovely,” she smiled. And as I carved the chicken expertly, all the stress of the evening subsided in an instant. Column and chicken cooked satisfactorily, greasy takeaway avoided and my good lady content. That’s amoré!