Dear Dinner Chicken,

 
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you. For you. For all that you do for me. Please bear with me as I attempt to count the ways I do love thee.

 
I love you for coming into my home almost fully defrosted, allowing me to spend only a few minutes washing and drying you, and then another few minutes seasoning you all over.

 
I love you for not turning your nose up when I stuff you with those leftover slices of apple that Tim left on the counter, because he was rushing off to school and was running late, as usual. Thank you for not saying a word as I muttered under my breath about certain people playing video games during finals week.

 
I love you for being so easygoing and not minding if I seasoned you instead with lemon this time instead of the usual orange, and not feeling diminished just because you happened to overhear me saying I wanted to save my orange for the biscotti I was going to make.

 
I love that you don’t ask much, only needing enough salt and then say nothing about having to sit in that hot oven for an hour without being checked on even once.

 
I love that you are my secret helper when clearing my vegetable bin, letting me throw in all the odd halves of onions, semi-dry garlic cloves, remnants of herbs that are on their last legs, and yet you materialize from that oven perfect every single time. Thank you for helping me manage my leftovers and avoid wasting precious produce.

 
And finally, thank you for letting me provide my family with a delicious dinner that’s easy on the wallet, our waistlines, and makes for great soup or chicken salad the next day.

 
You are so easy that you almost make yourself, and it gives us all some extra time to enjoy the finer things in life. Like blogging. Catching up on home projects. Or video games.

 
(Wait. I don’t think I love you so much for that last one.)

 
In any case, I know I don’t say it enough, so I thought I’d write you a letter while the oven is getting ready for you.

 
Looking forward to seeing you soon,
Ivoryhut

 
P.S. It just felt wrong leaving you, my beloved, exposed up there for all to see. Almost naked and in the raw, wearing little but your pale skin. So allow me to show you in all your glory after your tanning salon session, with your crisp edges and beautifully charred bits of herbs. Although, truth be told, not even a carefully-crafted collage can do you real justice.