The Chicken Dinner

[I wrote this memory 12/23/11. It actually occurred some time about 1963.  Dad was raised in Terre Haute, Indiana.]

My father absolutely hated chicken. He was a PK (Preacher’s Kid) in Indiana and apparently the parishioners would frequently have the pastor’s family over for dinner and they always served chicken. He also said it was because he had had to kill the chickens for dinners his mother prepared. Whatever the reason, he hated chicken and would not eat it.

My parents, sister, and I were invited to have dinner at the home of the parents and brother of my first serious boyfriend. I was a teenager and extremely worried that my dad would do something crazy or weird or otherwise embarrassing, but I simply did not think to warn Blanche (my boyfriend’s mother) about my father’s aversion to chicken and no one asked. 

We go to their house and gathered around the table, and there it was -- heaping platters of pieces of chicken. My anxiety level shot sky high. As food was passed around the table, I saw that my father used sleight of hand and only pretended to take some chicken. In the hubbub of dinner for eight, he might have got away with it, if he had just kept quiet. But no, he had to make several loud compliments, “This is the best chicken I’ve ever tasted!” and “This is great chicken!” and even “I sure love chicken!”

Dinner was ending and I almost relaxed, when Blanche offered Dad more chicken. He said, “No, thanks, I had plenty.” Then Blanche finally noticed and said, “But there are no bones on your plate!” I am dying, but Dad just says, “Well, I REALLY love chicken!”