Doing the Unthinkable

Though this happened in mid-December last year, I still cling to it as proof of what I’m capable of:

I said no to fried chicken!

Fried chickenApparently, Ezell’s is so much of a big deal, Oprah orders take-out all the way from Chicago (or so the local lore goes). I knew it would be served at this meeting I had to go to, and I girded myself accordingly. The vegetarian offering last year was really nasty, so I wasn’t sure if I could hold out. But like that first step a few weeks before, passing the meat by was shockingly easy.

Sitting down to eat, I looked around at everybody else, smacking their lips, talking about how good it was. And I was fine. I remembered that Ezell’s never really did that much for me. Maybe the Colonel has my heart. Still, in the past, I would happily eat Ezell’s the few times I encountered it. That instinctive reaching for something fried, memories of my siblings and I each having our own favorite piece every Sunday (mine was the drumstick), the promise, and ultimate letdown, of having it taste like Kentucky Fried from 25 years ago.

But looking at the greasy fingers, recalling that slimy feeling that never really washed away, the disappointment spun into the batter, leaving an aftertaste of flavorlessness and regret, I was content.

Maybe it helped that I loaded up on the fries, so I had my fix of fat. And the vegetarian option was pretty OK. But I still did the unthinkable. Hooray!

Now if only bacon was so easily refused…


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