Tasting Like Chicken

We had two refrigerators in our old apartment. The upstairs one was mostly used when the refrigerator on the main floor was full. We used the upstairs freezer more often since once the main floor freezer filled up, nothing ever came out of it. It was full of frosty bags of half-eaten fries and year-old brats. You wouldn't eat anything out of there because you weren't sure how old it was, and you wouldn't throw anything out since it wasn't yours. So the upstairs freezer would hold all our bags of frozen chicken breasts, which were pretty much the only frozen thing we'd eat anymore. Every once in awhile, I'd walk in our apartment door and my friend Chris would be standing over the stove tending four frying pans. The temperature was several degrees warmer inside, and the floor around the stove would be splattered with chicken juice. "I hope you're hungry," he'd say. "We have four bags of frozen chicken to eat." The problem with our upstairs fridge is that it would occasionally come unplugged, and everything in the freezer would thaw. When that happened, it meant we'd have an all-you-can-eat chicken meal, and then a bunch of wrapped chicken cutlets would go into the freezer never to be seen again.

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