An Ode to Bush's Chicken and the End of Humanity as We Know It

Justin and I travelled to Texas to look for a home two weeks before we moved here. Our realtor was stuck with us for the better part of 24 hours. And we were basically picking up our babies and dragging them to a whole new world so we had A LOT of questions. Justin asked about golf courses in central Texas, and whether there were any rock gyms. I asked about schools, churches, and modern dance companies. To his credit, Mr. Realtor was very knowledgeable. A strike against him: he had to ask what modern dance was. (And a little part of me, somewhere deep in my soul, gulped with dread.)

My husband was watching shops and homes go by out the window as we drove from house to house. "Oh, hey, Bush's chicken," he commented. "Is that like KFC?"

A look came over our realtor's face. It is the look of a man with a dark past, addiction from thirty years ago, creeping back into the consciousness. The look of a man facing his demons. "No," he croaked out. "Bush's chicken; that's where you go when you want to be really bad." (Note: Bush's is right next to Spec's, and the man said Bush's is where you go to be bad.) "Bush's makes KFC look like organic, grass-fed poultry."

The day of the semi-hurricane, when the traumas were pouring into the PICU at the hospital, and nurses were declaring that there would be the drinking of much rum that night, they ordered lunch for the floor. The lunch they selected was Bush's.

The problem with this town is that it closes on Sunday night. You can still drive through it, but don't expect to see any other human beings or open fine dining restaurants. The only things open on a Sunday night are the cheap, bag-less grocery store and Bush's.

So, by default, in spite of our better judgement, we decided to get Bush's. They don't have an intercom box at Bush's. They don't even have an organized lane. You just sort of pull up to the side of the restaurant, and wait nervously with both hands on the steering wheel. A Bush's henchman slinks up to your car with a blank piece of paper and a pen. He doesn't ask what you want, he just raises his eyebrows. You both know why you're there. You give your order. A six hundred pound man in overalls, who drove in on his tractor in stares through you, zombie-like, and licks his chops.

A moment later, the little chicken henchman returns carrying a concerningly large and oddly shaped bag. It either contains your order or a dead body. Perhaps it's some efficiency worked out between the fried chicken industry and the local morgue. Take dinner home in the same bag the EMTs carry you out in. You shudder as the exchange is completed, feeling you may have just negotiated a hostage release. You drive home quickly, open the frightful bag, and are greeted by this:

Chipper, huh?

Since moving to Texas I have gained some weight. It is a new culture here, there are many stresses, and I am home all day with people who think fruit snacks are ambrosia. I haven't gained a lot of weight, but enough to make me attempt some level of diet. 

But you pull that box out, and BLAM! Take that kale! I'll have to eat nothing but apples for the next week in order to recover.

We pulled out the standard Styrofoam containers of side dishes and popped them open. There was one family size container full of gravy. "What is this for?" I asked Justin. He demonstrated, now an expert in this masochism, that you are supposed to dunk the fried chicken in the gravy. In case you aren't satisfied with the current rate of your chosen destruction.

Halfway through dinner I saw a little container amongst the chicken and bread. "Ooh what's this?" I asked. (My stomach was hoping for applesauce, but my brain didn't let it get its' hopes up.) Justin plucked it from the grease and popped the top:

Huh. Back up gravy. Nifty.

In the next photos, my daughter will display appropriate posture for the consumption of Bush's chicken.

Noah is picky. Very picky. Any new food he tries, is a victory. I nearly died with glee when he ate a grilled cheese sandwich. Protein is his nemesis. No hamburger, no bacon, no ham, no turkey. No no no no.

The kid ate four Bush's Chicken chicken tenders:

And I said the following words to my child, my pride and joy, my baby buddy, the blessing I spent 21 hours giving birth to (18.5 of which were without an epidural): I HATE YOU.

Of course. Of course, the one protein he will eat will cause him a heart attack by the age of six.

So there you are. If you're looking for trouble in Texas, if you want to be really bad, Bush's is what you want.