Interestingly, on my Amazon Kindle, which I dearly love, I just read Chapter 1 in What the Dog Saw, about Ron Popeil and his countertop rotisserie. I learned that the Popeil Pocket Fisherman was noted to be of dubious utility by someone, requiring Mr. Popeil to explain that the compact sporting good was for giving, not for using, thus explaining a great deal about the device and, unfortunately, eliminating one of my favorite conversation starters: “Remember the Popeil Pocket Fisherman?” If the reply was affirmative, we could discuss what kind of person would buy something like that. If negative, I would explain all about the device, moving right on into Ginsu knives and ending up with the Sledge-O-Matic.
With my new-found knowledge, I can begin straight out with the Popeil rotisserie. This exceptional device, which Mr. P was said to have developed in his own kitchen from an aquarium and a motor, rotissing countless chickens in the quest for the perfect bird, holds the chicken in a horizontal rather than vertical position to prevent the top end from drying out. It turns 6 times per minute, which is apparently the optimal rate for crisp, even browning. The door is glass and it is slanted to provide a full view of the delicious process taking place in order to enhance sales on TV–customers love to see how things work. Sales exceeded $1 million in the first hour Mr. P pitched the device on QVC, which was remarkable even for QVC.
I thought it interesting that this accomplishment occurred in the middle of the night. Far from being a gourmet device or even functional kitchen item like the crockpot, this item was not purchased by cooks and housewives. It is a sedative and hypnotic for insomniacs, the only people awake to have seen the pitch. I imagine thousands upon thousands of them soothing themselves through the night with slowly rotating chickens.
There was a grease can on the back of our stove. It was part of the canister set, and it had “GREASE” imprinted on its side. FLOUR, SUGAR, COFFEE, GREASE, and TEA. Tea was the smallest. Bacon grease went into a jar as a concession to my father, who used it to fry eggs. Mom did her Sunday deep-fat fried chicken in a large cast aluminum pot containing enough melted shortening to completely submerge all the chicken parts. The edible parts were tamped firmly in white flour, salt, and pepper, then dropped into the boiling oil until they turned crisply brown.
We did not eat at KFC. My mother seemed to find something slightly tawdry about the Colonel’s southern connection. This made me want to eat there very much, a desire I indulged immediately upon reaching the age of emancipation. I was cured of this by the discovery that KF chicken is one of the Unacceptably Wet Foods, as well as by the bizarre fact that they consider the chicken butt to be a piece and that their birds have two of them and four thighs.
I’m going to go read about the Dog Whisperer next, because I know someone who has an interest in him and his doggish abilities. It will give us something to discuss, which might be a good thing because I think I just wore out the topic of rotisseried chicken.