Page 58 of The Man I Hate

“Roll up your sleeves,” she said. “I don’t want you to get chicken on your cuffs.”

I didn’t want chicken on my shirt, either. I did as she asked and rolled up the sleeves.

She wagged her finger toward the camera. “Do you have a rolling pin?”

“I do not.”

She frowned. “A meat mallet?”

“A what?”

“It’s like a hammer, but it’s probably square. The face of it is covered with little spikey things.” She made a striking motion with her clenched fist. “You tenderize meat with it.”

“No kitchen hammers.” I shrugged one shoulder. “Sorry.”

She scowled. “You have a skillet, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“A cookie sheet?”

“More or less.” I laughed. “It’s kind of a long story. Abbreviated version is this: Pratt used it to change the oil on his Harley. It’s kind of bent up, but it works just fine.”

She scowled. “Who?”

“Pratt. He’s a coworker and friend.”

“I should have sent utensils.” She scratched the side of her head. “Do you have a big hammer?”

“I’ve got a rubber mallet in the garage.”

“Perfect,” she said excitedly. “Go get it.”

I returned in a moment with a rubber mallet. I presented it to the camera as if it were for sale. “One rubber mallet.”

“Okay,” she said. “We’re going to leave the chicken in the plastic bag, place it on the countertop, and beat it to twice its size with that hammer. First, you’re going to preheat the oven to 350. After you’ve done that, come back.”

I turned the oven on and returned into the view of the camera.

“Watch me,” she said, coming so close to the camera that she filled the entire screen with her face. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

She backed away from the camera and panned it toward the countertop. She raised a rolling pin, grinned slyly, and then commenced to beat the absolute shit out of a plastic wrap covered chicken breast.

“You. Pound. The. Meat. Like. It’s. Your. Most. Regretful. Ex,” she said, pounding the rolling pin against the meat with each spoken word. “Whoever. Screwed. You. Over. The. Most. Becomes. The. Meat.”

When she was done, the meat was just as she’d described—nearly twice its original size.

She faced the camera. “Do that to your meat.”

I left the chicken in the large Ziploc bag, situated it in the center of the island, and imagined it was my ex-wife.

An anger fueled tirade with the mallet ensued. When I came to my senses, I set the hammer aside and looked at the chicken. It was nearly see-through.

I looked at the camera. “How’s that?”

She laughed. “Wow. Your meat’s huge. Your chicken meat, not your…never mind. I’m stopping talking now.”