Sharla looked at her chicken, and knew it wasn’t perfect. Far from it. This, she thought to herself, is probably going to give me some kind of intestinal bug, and leave me vomiting or pooping – or both – for days.
Sharla shrugged, and carried on.
“Pound the chicken until it’s nice and tender,” she read quietly to herself. “Place ham and cheese inside. Roll up. Secure with toothpick. Sounds easy enough.”
She looked down at the chicken. “It’s already kind of bleu,” she said, and chuckled to herself. She grabbed her hammer – the closest thing she had to a meat tenderizer – and started to pound away.
It took much longer than it should have, but eventually the chicken was mostly flat. There were some lumps, some valleys and foothills, but it was good enough. It could be rolled, at least. Sharla smiled at her handiwork. She turned to the fridge, and started rooting.
The cheese was easily found – pre-sliced pieces of Havarti, no problem. The ham, however, seemed to have walked off. She checked the meat drawer, the vegetable drawer, behind the milk, behind the Cheerios – she pulled those out, realizing how little sleep she had been getting recently – and on the condiments shelf. Nothing. Nowhere. Maybe I didn’t get any ham? she thought to herself. I remember getting some, but maybe I ate it?
Shrugging, Sharla started looking for alternatives. The best she could find was a can of spam, one she kept for emergencies. “Better than a kick in the gut,” she said.
Opening the spam, she spooned some out, added some cheese, and rolled. She did this four times, then sprinkled some bread crumbs on the creations before sticking them in the oven. She put the timer on, and waited, hoping the tinge of blue would go away and it would be as delicious as the restaurant.