But I Can Do Other Things

I have an online group of friends. We have been in conversation for several years.

The topic du jour is the cooking of chicken breasts. Apparently some of our number are rolling on the floor with laughter, hysterical laughter being their response to that innocent question, "Why would you pound a chicken breast? And with what?"

Let me hasten to add that I was not the one who asked. However, I would have, had I grasped the import of the subject at hand.

This is the reason that I can never, ever move to the country: I need to be within blocks of several restaurants and full-service grocery stores.

The other night at the prepared foods counter, I told the cook how glad I am that he is there. "I love cooking for you!" he said happily. I'm so grateful that he does. He probably knows all about the pounding stuff.

No, I did not know about these.