Not so very long ago, one of my wife’s friends gave her a recipe for “Beer Bottom Chicken”. Basically, you balance your chicken on an open beer can for roasting.
No, I have no idea how or why this is supposed to improve the flavor of a roast chicken. I could understand pouring the beer over the chicken maybe, but wedging the can up its backside? I don’t get it.
In any case, she gave it a try one night. As she was serving it, she announced proudly that this wasn’t just any chicken, it was beer bottom chicken.
The kids, of course, immediately translated her words into that special lingo known as “Kindergarten Boyspeak”
“Beer Butt Chicken?” My oldest said, then started laughing. “Beer Butt Chicken?!”
“No,” his little brother corrected. “Bear Butt Chicken!”
“No, it’s Beer Butt – I mean Bottom – Chicken.” I said. “It’s a special new recipe. It’s going to be great!”
“Beer Butt Chicken?” my littlest asked, looking at it suspiciously.
And, really, who could blame him?
“Come on now,” my wife said. “It’s a special recipe. It supposed to be juicier than regular roast chicken and have lots of flavor.”
We said our prayers and dug in – all except for my youngest. He waited to see if it was safe.
“Mmm,” I said, chewing the surprisingly rubbery meat. “Nothing like a hint of boiled beer to spice up a chicken.”
“Boiled beer butt,” my oldest corrected me, pulling a piece of chicken out of his mouth.
My youngest looked like he was about to throw up.
“Perhaps it’s actually a pizza?” I asked.
“I think,” my wife said, forcing herself to swallow, “you might be right. I’ll get the phone.”