I should really stop browsing women’s magazine websites when my brain needs downtime. Either that or Glamour needs to put an end to the Engagement Chicken hoopla. One blogger has been documenting her Engagement Chicken quest, and I don’t know whether to be amused or disgusted.
I do kind of wonder whether I’m jealous, in a sense. I feel like every magazine I pick up “for entertainment” tells me to give my man his space when his team loses the big game and to routinely (but not so routinely as to take away the air of spontaneity) treat him to wings and beer. And then, when I’m ready to put the ol’ settle down spell on him, I’m supposed to cook him a big freaking chicken stuffed with lemons and herbs and things.
What about all the girls girls out there dating vegetarians who don’t drink and aren’t sports fans, huh?
And besides, what a way to stereotype men, suggesting that they can be won over by meat and fermented beverages. And does a woman really have to resort to cooking a big chicken with citrus shoved up its ass to coax her boyfriend into making her an honest woman? What does it say about the whole tradition of the man proposing marriage? I neither agree nor disagree—I just think it sends a message I’m not comfortable with.
I know it’s just a roast chicken, but the whole thing kind of irks me.
Then again, my mom says my dad fell in love with her mashed potatoes and then her. So maybe I should be careful what I say. If it weren’t for home-cooked comfort food, I might not be here…
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