She was bronzed, glistening and gorgeous beneath the merciless lights and I knew she could be mine -- all mine -- for a lousy $5.95. I had just one question.
Where do all those those supermarket ready-roasted chickens come from?
Was it some thousand-spit pullet-roasting facility, its belching smokestacks darkening the sky as mighty conveyer belts loaded an endless line of trucks with the plastic clam-shell'd capons. The truth was far, far... more ordinary.
"We just roast 'em right here in the store," the supermarket manager told me.
Yeah, you knew that. Everyone knew but me. And yes I also know they're not really capons. I just couldn't resist an opportunity to add an aspect of alliteration to the Food for Thought follies.
"Bring me four fried chickens and a Coke."