Saturday afternoon, YBW decides he wants fried chicken for dinner. Partly because fried chicken is one of his favorite foods, partly because he wants to pay homage to Kenny Rogers.
Now, I’m a Southern girl, but I can’t make fried chicken to save my ass.
That means carry out, and I get behind the wheel of my car for the first time since…I honestly don’t remember when.
We go to one place, the drive up line is long so we keep moving.
We go to the next place, they’re monitoring the number of people entering the building. (no drive up) I don’t know what I want, and we both don’t want to go in.
One u-do-it (u turn) later and we’re passing the first place again, this time with more cars lined up around the building.
We finally land on a third place, get our chicken, and head home.
We’re catching up on Briarpatch episodes and nomming fried chicken.
All is well.
I start to get all dry and itchy in my throat.
I drink water, no relief.
I drink coca cola, no relief.
I take my plate to the dishwasher and begin to cough at the kitchen sink. So much so that YBW asks if I’m going to be sick.
Y’all, something in the breading or seasoned fries has triggered and allergic reaction in me.
And with what’s going on in the world this is not the time to head out for help. But I know how to handle it, it’s not the first time this has happened to me. Handful of zyrtec later I’m hoarse but breathing perfectly well.
Only once I’m ready for bed, the coughing starts again.
So I get up go back downstairs and turn on Mad Men.
This morning I’m breathing and swallowing well, but my throat hurts. Not like a sore throat, more like like tight muscles.
So, RIP Kenny Rogers and his chicken. I’m grateful for zyrtec when it was inconvenient to seek medical attention, but I’ll pass on that cold chicken breast I was planning to eat today.