In the dog house

Yep, I got myself in trouble last night. I was not a popular bunny. Oh no. My goose was well and truly cooked. My crime? Well, I roasted a chicken. I thought my other half may appreciate a nice bit of roast chicken seeing as we have often bought pollo arrosto from shops in the past and I, mistakenly, believed that pollo arrosto was roast chicken. It tasted like it, but the only acceptable way to roast (I think ‘roast’ is the correct expression…) a chicken is to cook it on a spit in a suitably equipped oven, I discovered. The roast chicken odour which permeated our flat did not go down at all well, especially when I decided to boil the carcass in order to make some yummy chicken stock.

I can see it now. Divorce courts:

Judge: Next case!.

Clerk: Mrs M v Mr R. M’lud.

Judge: What are the grounds for this divorce?

Clerk: Roast chicken.

Judge, after falling about in fits of laughter: Roast chicken! Tell the parties to get stuffed. Next case!

Oh, and the chicken tasted great! However, for the sake of maintaining domestic harmony I shall refrain from roasting anything in the future, for fear of getting a roasting.