One of the perks of spending an afternoon at Costco (besides sampling all of the yummy offerings at the end of the aisles) was knowing that dinner would be easy to accomplish since I always, without fail, would bring home one of their delicious rotisserie chickens. The price was right too hence their name, Cost-co, I guess. In those carefree B.P. (Before Pescatarianism) days, I would load my car and sit the rotisserie chicken in its black-bottomed carry case, on newspaper (in case of spills which thankfully never happened) on the floor of the front passenger seat. As I blissfully drive home, the delicious smell of the golden perfectly browned chicken would waft up to where I had my eyes trained on the road home, thinking of the simple sides to complete a satisfying meal. Always, there is a green salad for dinner which I could pull together with the giant cello rectangle of spring mix, cherry tomatoes and sliced almonds, all procured on my shopping run. I could then add stuffing mix or cous cous, each of which only takes five to ten minutes to prepare, and a side of cranberry or applesauce, both of which I keep on hand. I have fond memories of pulling into my garage and letting out my dog who would smell the chicken as soon as I opened the trunk to begin unloading. His jumping, stumpy tail wagging, and sniffing was a happy dance that was a joy to behold. Then once I brought the chicken inside and transferred it to roasting pan to keep it warm in my oven (I do not own a microwave which is a story in itself), there were always little pieces of meat and that golden brown skin stuck in the black tray which I would give my cockapoo in his food bowl as an appetizer in anticipation of the meal to come. I’d even talk to my dog, saying things like, “guess what I have? (as if he would answer) chicken!” Or “who’s going to have chicken for dinner? You are!” My dog definitely understands the word ‘chicken’ (which I now have to spell when I’m in his presence so not to get him unduly excited.) Once dinner time came, my kids in those carefree B.P. days, would ask for the legs and thighs, and maybe some breast meat for seconds (yes, they would have seconds!) all of us smiling, dipping the meat in barbecue sauce, and generally enjoying our meal together while giving our dog pieces of skin and meat while his tag wagged off his fluffy butt. Alas, we are now in A.P. times, the years of pescatarianism (aka Anno Pescataria), a dreary era during which I make runs to Costco and return alone in the front seat of the car, without the scent of rotisseried goodness to make my mouth water, coming home to a dog who watches me unload the car staring at me in bewilderment, probably thinking doggy thoughts like, “Did she forget to bring a piece of heaven home?” or “Did I do something bad and she’s punishing me?”. I do have a confession to make. One day this past summer when the kids were all occupied and not coming home for dinner, I went to Costco to do my shopping and as I was headed to the checkout area, I did a 180 u-turn in sort of a half run to the rotisserie counter where the chickens were being unloaded out of the roaster to a throng of waiting, salivating customers. I grabbed a warm, container emanating the golden brown goodness within, and jogged back to the checkout area. Once I got home, I was greeted by an ecstatic cockapoo, practically peeing himself with excitement, and we spent the next few days, me and the cockapoo, enjoying chicken lunches and dinners, looking at each other and smiling, which dogs can do, seeming to say, we’ll always have ‘chicken’.