Wonder Thighs...OR...The Thighs Have It

You won't believe my stroke of good luck yesterday! Uh huh! It has to do with the gas station chicken store. Yes, I bought a lottery ticket there. But it didn't win. That's not my stroke of good luck.

At first I thought I was going to have bad luck, because I bypassed that place on the way to mail two bills (yes, I DO pay them, when I GET them) at the dead mouse smelling post office, when there was only one car in the parking lot...and when I came back to do my business, there were six or seven trucks.

The work crews had stopped to pick up lunch, of course. So they were lined up four deep at the chicken-ordering counter. I went on to the soda fountain. My magical elixir has been especially delicious of late from their tap. The guys in white painters jeans ahead of me picked up their chicken dinners and their four-pieces and fried pies, and got in line to pay.

The Man Owner was working the register, and the Wife Owner was slinging chicken. I think she was training a new fryer. The old fryer kept making an appearance, but she had just dropped a batch and was back to the kitchen forthwith. The Wife Owner took my order, wrote it on the ticket, and told the new boy that she needed an eight-piece. That's their special.

"Two breasts, two thighs, two legs, two wings."

She opened the box and slid it along the counter, while he reached into the glass-fronted case with tongs to snag pieces from the stainless steel tubs. Which were nearly depleted. It was, after all, 11:00. You gotta get there pretty early in the morning to get the first batch of lunch chicken.

"We only have two legs left!"

They looked at each other.

"Well, we have enough for this box. And she's going to have that next batch ready."

That's when it hit me. Did I dare, I wondered, make a suggestion to the Wife Owner? She runs a tight ship. Everyone is always walking on eggshells when she's present, which has been a lot, lately. Still. I didn't work for her. I was a paying customer, doggone it! Who single-handedly keeps their business afloat with my daily 44 oz Diet Coke, and lottery and chicken purchases.

"Um...if you're short on legs, I could take thighs instead..."

"Oh! Really? You don't mind?"

"No. I like the thighs better. My husband likes the legs, but he'll never know I gave them up."

"I think the thighs are the best part, myself! Okay. Put those two legs back in case somebody wants them, and give her two more thighs. I hope I can fit them in this box!"

Yep. Mrs. HM got herself an eight-piece box with two breasts, four thighs, and two wings. Let the record show that one of those thighs was of enormous proportions, like they used to have all the time. It was as big as a breast, by cracky!

I usually have two pieces for lunch, two for lunch the next day, and give the legs and wings to Farmer H for a meal. Not this time. That's three lunches! With SLAW on the side! Farmer H is still welcome to the wings. And if he doesn't want them, I'm sure my Sweet, Sweet Juno will enjoy the drumette and radius/ulna parts, and Jack the flappy wing flat tips.

Never be afraid to suggest thigh replacements at your gas station chicken store!