I am not Julia's child...

Sometime during roadrunning I noticed that Hulu posted episodes from Bewitched. When I was younger, I completely adored reruns of that show, so I decided to watch a few episodes to reminisce. The major difference between watching Bewitched when you're an eight-year-old who still believes that she could have some latent magical powers and watching Bewitched when you're a 22-year-old college graduate with a degree in psychology and a minor in sociology? Well, let's just say that eight-year-old me didn't subject a rather understanding boyfriend to the list of reasons Samantha is suffocating in suburbia. I mean, here is a woman with the world at her fingertips (more accurately, at her nostrils), and she abandons everything because she marries a mortal advertising executive whose idea of connubial felicity does not involve levitating pot roasts or a spontaneously materializing mother-in-law. It's not even that she stops using her magic to satisfy her every whim; Samantha refused to use her powers for even the most mundane chores. Sure, I understand the desire to satisfy her partner, but Samantha abandoned a large part of her identity to assimilate to Morning Glory Circle. Thus, my innocent wish to watch a couple of episodes dissolved quickly into an anthropological study of a season and a half of a retro television series so I could appreciate the portrayal of the Standard North American Family (or, as sociologists call them, SNAFs). Sorry, darling.

Why do I bring all this up? Today I had an overwhelming desire to watch another episode of Bewitched. Not to critique Samantha's suburban lifestyle, but to relate to it. Every day this week Keri has gone off to work while I have stayed at home. A lot of time has been dedicated to applications and resumes, but a lot more has been straightening the house and waiting eagerly for Keri to return so I'm no longer bored and lonely. (I swear this isn't as pathetic as it sounds...) Even though there's a lot to do with the house, I like thinking of projects to keep me busy. I decided to make a roasted chicken for tonight's dinner. If you know me, you know that I cannot cook. At all. So I googled (I kid you not) "roasted chicken recipes for idiots," and I decided to make this, but instead of celery I stuffed the chicken with carrots, mushrooms, potato, and onion. But this is what we wound up eating for dinner. The chicken was undercooked by 50 degrees after the hour and fifteen minutes in the oven. After another hour, it was still undercooked. I was... hurt? Is that the right word? The job search has been frustrating lately, and I finally got contacted by two potential employers today. If the chicken had gone according to plan, I would have been on top of the world. Because even if I'm not as financially soluble right now as I'd like to be, at least it would have been a small contribution to the house. And it would have been something that I did correctly, even if it is just a (totally delicious) chicken. Because as feminist (or whatever) as I am, someday I want to be able to cook a stupid chicken. And maybe bake some cookies, too, while I'm at it. And definitely do it while holding down a job that I love.

In case you were wondering, Keri and I left the chicken in the oven for another hour while we went to Aladdin's. When we came back, it was cooked beautifully. The tiny slivers we ate were moist and wonderful, but I cannot say anything for sure until we carve the sucker (I named it Friedrich) tomorrow night for dinner. And, I must do a shameless plug for Aladdin's now: I am almost okay with totally screwing up the chicken, because the Aladdin's Lamb Roll was amazing.