Cornish game hen is the new gas station chicken. It must be. I've never seen chicken body parts so small. A breast these days is the size of yesterday's thigh. And the thighs are like tiny quail appendages.
Yes, I've been betrayed by my gas station. No longer is a breast a bigger than a man's hand, plump, juicy, hard to devour in one sitting. Now it's a tiny shriveled thing, mostly bone. Hear that? A breast is mostly bone. That is so wrong. Used to be, packages of chicken breast would be labeled "with rib meat." That meant a sliver of bone was on the back side. These gas station imposters are now mostly bone. Ribs. They look for all the world like a back. I'm not keen on eating chicken backs. Not when I'm paying for a breast.
The issue has grown so obvious that a couple weeks ago, my chicken dipper actually put TWO breasts in my bag when I ordered one. Because he knew it was cheating to give me a back and ribs disguised with a thin strip of breast meat on one edge. Yes. It's a sad day when the thigh is bigger than the breast.
Where are they getting these chickens? The ones that work out doing squats across the free range all the live-long day, building up their thighs while their breasts atrophy. My days of touting the gas station chicken are nearing their end. It's not a bargain, and it's not that tasty.
The price and downsizing of progress.