I'm stuffed.
Once upon a time, when I was living by myself, I used to spend, every year, a holiday or two with my parents. I used to eat like a Nir (like a Pig doesn't come close to it, unfortunately, and I suspect that I've no real idea regarding the feeding habits of pigs anyway), return home, sleep it over and wake up the next day with nothing worse than a slight tendency for burping.
Currently, however, I do not live alone. Therefore I have to spend the holidays in the horrible manner which, for lack of a better name, I will call Double Impact (VanDamn once made a film by that name – I bet the idea wasn't his. He played there a pair of twins, and one of'em was unintentionally gay).
Where was I? Oh. So anyway, Double Impact is a course of events in which I get my stomack Full Of Chicken come Friday, only to have it Restuffed With Chicken come Saturday. This does not, alas, give my delicate digestion system any time to recuperate, and I find myself quite dizzy afterwards. The fact that the First Chicken was done by Kerens' grandmother with the Second Chicken was done by my mother does not add stability to my condition. It is a well known fact that Mixing Chickens is not recommended, medically and spiritually speaking.
All the above is true, so I testify, but it is not the Whole Truth. Oh, no. An account of The Whole Truth will have to include the Beef. And the Pickles. And the Fritikas (something bulgarian made mainly from Condensed Potato). And the Pickles. And the Salad. And the Pickles. And the Mushrooms, the Ice Cream, the Casserole, the Pie, the Cakes, the Fruits and the Pickles.
And the Chicken, of course.

Is there any connection between Chicken and Kitchen? I think there must be. I mean, more than the ordinary "I Cooked A Chicken In My Kitchen" or "A Horrible Chicken Took Over My Kitchen". A Hidden Connection. A Secret Connection. Even a Sinister one.
On the other hand, I think I'm gonna Powder My Nose again.
Off I go!

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