My Chicken is Performing

My chicken is performing chicken-ness as it roasts away in the oven. It smells great, like grandma's house. Roast chicken was the only thing grandma cooked. I put whole garlic cloves under the skin and threw in six tiny sweet potatoes to bake on the top shelf.

Baking the chicken is inspiring me to clean the house, do laundry and vacuum. The tumbleweeds of animal hair have multiplied. My kitchen linoleum looks like the old Brighton beach butcher shop that Grandma took me to when I was five. It had mounds of cedar shavings on the floor.

Sylvia and I decided:
The best way to heal the 'hood is to pull the drapes.