Dave says to tell you about the Chicken Farm. I oblige.

I know you won’t believe this, but I’ve spent a lot of the day trying to rationalize taking a day off from BEDA. I KNOW! I TOLD you you would think I was joking.

So I’m going to do something today that I rarely do, which is HUMOR DAVE.

Dave (The Husband, for the uninitiated) spends a lot of time telling me what I should write about. Dave’s ideas are kind of out there. (There will probably be more than one comment on this blog post attesting to this fact.) So generally, I nod and go about my business, knowing that the story of our neighborhood as seen through the eyes of a wild turkey or the complicated thoughts of our K9 companions will never find documentation from this source.

But today, he was right. He said I needed to tell you about the Chicken Farm. Oh man, you’ll be glad I did. Unless you’re a vegetarian. Or a recovering gambling addict. If you can answer yes to either of the following:

1. I am a vegetarian.

2. I am a recovering gambling addict.

then scurry away now. SCURRY!

Now for the rest of you, I share the secret.

There is an little place (READ: enormous, sprawling building) in North Smithfield, Rhode Island called Wright’s Farm, affectionately known as the Chicken Farm. This is where Weagles (of which Dave is one and, when on the phone with Verizon or similar, I am one as well) spend their Easter and it RULES.

The Easter tradition starts off around 11 a.m., when we arrive at the Chicken Farm and drink Bloody Marys and play KENO for an hour or so (just as Jesus would have wanted it) while we wait for the rest of the Weagles and the grandparents to arrive.

Then I win somewhere between 5 and 60 dollars at Keno and everyone tells me I’m lucky. I AM!

Our “dinner” reservation is for 12:30, so around 12:15, The Grandparents are announced over a loudspeaker, and we are queued to see “Christine.” “Christine” talks to someone through her little walky-talky headpiece thing, and then sends us to “Kevin.” We walk through a long room filled with long tables of families – some decked out in their Easter best with little girls in bonnets and white patent leather Mary Janes, some in acid washed jeans and Nascar tee-shirts. “Kevin” might then seat us in a similar giant room of giant tables, or he might walky-talky and then send us through a maze of similar rooms through other walky-talky checkpoints, until finally, someone puts us at our own long table. (Among our party are some in Sunday best, some in Nascar tee-shirts.)

This is the tricky part where I stand off to the side for a minute while people choose their seats. The first time I went to the Chicken Farm, I was given little warning about what would transpire and I innocently sat across the table from Dave’s gramp. I’m pretty sure Gramp starves himself for about two weeks in anticipation of his visit to the Chicken Farm, and watching the man tear into a chicken leg is one of the more…intense…things I have witnessed in my life. Gramp eats chicken with such relish that few of his exposed limbs are not glistening with grease by the end of it.

So, once seated (safely between Gram and Mother-in-Law), the rolls come out. The sound of the rolls hitting the table is best compared to the bell that denotes the start of a round in a prize fight. After that, it’s pretty much a blur. After the rolls come bowl upon bowl of salad, dripping in Italian dressing, macaroni shells with tomato sauce, french fries, and the chicken. Oh man, the chicken! It falls off the bone! Into a pile of greasy deliciousness! That you then dip the french fries in! The LOVE! In your MOUTH! So good.

Ten to twelve minutes later, it’s all over.

We say our good-byes to “Kevin” and “Christine.” We head out to the parking lot and exchange Easter presents. We hug everyone good bye, and we head back to the boat and back to our lives where we will spend the entire year trying to plan between-Easter trips to the Chicken Farm with various groups that will never come to pass. Sometimes we stop at Twin Rivers on the way home and play the slots for Jesus. Mostly we just look forward to sleeping off the chicken hangover and talk about tactics for how we will eat more next year.



1 Comment »

  1. Lori said

    WRIGHTS CHICKEN FARM. I thought only people within a 35 mile radius of this place knew about it. Oh the countless high school sports-team “banquets” I’ve had here. If you ever make between-Easter reservations I would offer round trip transportation from the boat. Sign me up!

RSS feed for comments on this post · TrackBack URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: