A couple months after Mike and I got married, Mike’s mom gave us a giant tub of marinated chicken. I was ecstatic! See, one night, at Mike’s parents’ place, we had some amazing grilled chicken. I was obsessed. It was sweet, savory, garlic-y, sticky, charred deliciousness. I wanted to learn how to make it myself so I asked her for the recipe. So, as moms do, she told me it was fish sauce, garlic, shallots, and sugar. I asked how much of everything and got: oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that, until you feel like it tastes right. I tried to recreate it, many times, but to no avail. Finally she took pity on me and made me a huge tub of marinated raw chicken thighs. I happily grilled it and Mike and I feasted for 6 meals straight with fluffy white rice and crunchy fresh cucumbers. After days of chicken, I wasn’t tired of it, it was that good. After we ran out we ate other things, but I still dreamed of that chicken. So, when Mike’s mom gave us another tub of chicken telling us it was the same chicken, a month or so later, I was in heaven.
In a slightly suspicious heaven though because the chicken didn’t look like my chicken, the chicken I had come to know and love. It had some other things in it?! Other things that were delicious, sure, but the thing is, it didn’t have that smack you in the face flavor of the first chicken. I was happy on the outside because I’m not the type of person to turn down a food gift, but on the inside I was crying because the chicken I knew and loved was over, forever.