Last night I roasted a chicken while watching the Cubs break our collective hearts again. Those of you who have been reading for a while may know that my feelings about the magical restorative qualities of a roasted chicken run right up there with the ability of cake to cheer people up. My faith may waver in many things, but never in the power of a roasting chicken to bring a house back to life.
So I ate a little chicken, with some rice and beet greens from last summer’s garden. There are many good things about a roast chicken, but one of them is that when your energy level is as unstable as mine has been these last couple of weeks, once you roast the chicken, you then have cold roasted chicken in the fridge. Which, along with all those greens I put up this summer, means that without a lot of effort, you can cook yourself a decent, nutritious dinner that can’t help but begin to heal your body and soul. My house smelled all chicken-y and lived in. The Cubs proceeded to lose the big game by fits and starts, but cooking again meant that one more small thing in my life began to feel a tiny bit more normal.