My friend, Claire (who has been getting a lot of air time here recently) tends bar a few nights a week at a posh pub in a quaint, English town. The other night, one of her regular customers (who happens to be an older, distinguished, Irish gentleman) says to her, ‘Claire, I bet you are great in the sack.’ (Irish men can say rude things like this because they have cornered the market in charm)
Claire smiled and said, ‘In bed? No, no—I’m not great in bed, I am better than great. I am world class. No one is better than me in bed. Literally, no one.’
This took her Irish friend back a little. ‘Really.’ His eyes sparkling just a bit.
‘Yea. I can sleep for hours on end. Nothing wakes me up. I am the best sleeper. Unbelievable, I am.’
Wish I were as good in bed as Claire. But I‘m not. I am rubbish. And I know that I’m not alone. I was reading yesterday about how many zillions of people in the U.S. and U.K. don’t sleep well.
I chuckled at my best friend from college who started a sleep clinic ten or fifteen years ago. He is now a multi-millionaire.
Sleeplessness begins, for me, with the confused rooster who lives next door. He crows beginning at about 3 a.m.. Still dark out—doesn’t matter— this pompous, feathered beast thinks it’s time to rise and shine and give a shout out to the neighbours. As I write this it’s almost 6 a.m. and he is still going—every 15 minutes he lets out his throaty cry.
Some mornings, I’d like to march over there and ring his shrill, scrawny neck. Instead, I lie in bed and think of all the different ways to cook chicken. Stewed, roasted, grilled, broiled, poached, sautéed, steamed, fried, simmered...Mmmmmmmmmm...Damn you, rooster.
My favourite recipe is ‘Chicken Under a Brick’. It is incredibly simple and unbelievably tasty. Worth every early morning cocka-doodle-doo.