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Fried Chickeny Goodness

Today was my third OB appointment and I loved this next doctor. You never know who’ll be catching the baby come time so I’m making the rounds to meet all of them in the practice. Their fellow employees agree, they’re all nice. And like the two before him, this doc went right into the testing options for me to decide if I should be worried out of my head for the health and genetic well-being of my unborn child. And as before, I politely listened and then, just as the time before, declined any more testing. Seems that one test I did allow got me a 1 in 19 chance of having a Downs Syndrome baby. OK. Still not going to choose to worry.

I was among amigas as I watched all the other bellies bobbing up and down around me. Happy day, I’ve gained only 8 pounds while carrying this apple sized baby. My blood pressure and the baby’s heartbeat were perfecty perfect. However, my hunger grew sitting in that waiting room. So I came up with a plan. You have three guesses where a pregnant lady in Easton goes to get a perfect caloric fix. And one of them better be the Acme for the fried chicken. I know several Eastonians who’ve been hooked on this fried nirvana. One of them was pregnant too.

I needed some of that fried chickeny goodness immediately. As well as some real whole grain bread which I just can’t get at the Food Dog in Denton. Refreshing fruit was also on my list. Pineapple, strawberries, cantaloupe, and navel oranges were in my self checkout cart. I don’t know why I did self checkout since it never works out well. I told the guy in front of me he was making it look too easy. Of course the self checkout guardians had to come to my rescue when my husband called and distracted me.

In the truck, I called him back as I made quick work of two wings and two legs. The magic of this chicken is this indescribable crunchy fatty outside, giving it a crack-like quality, as well as a moist inside. I thought maybe I detected a touch of thyme with my floury grease. But my mistake was the flavor of Vitamin water I chose. It was called Spark and was a grape-blueberry combo. But after two gulps, all I could taste was spot-a-pot or those blue sani toilet thingers. Acck. Happily, I only imbibed half of the 120 potential calories in that bottle.

At home, everything is swell right now. The only baby tension we have at our house is a battle over names. Since my husband would, as before, not like to know the sex of the baby, we have to have two names in the hopper. We had an unused girl name we still adore. But the next boy name s become a challenge. And a funny story in the making. Perhaps I’ll share it soon. Maybe the masses will see it my way and the husband will concede. Not. Stay tuned.

 

 

 

 

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