Crispy Chicken
Tenders

February. Four in the afternoon, and the light was already thinking about leaving. I wore two scarves. My wife wore my third.

We were playing for the right to choose the movie that night. Stakes, in a marriage, are everything.

On the 12th at PopStroke Glendale she faced a tricky putt over a ridge and down into a little valley, the kind of green that looks like a frozen wave. She took her time. She rocked it gently. It crested the ridge, picked up speed, and fell in with a sound like a coin dropping into a wishing well. I was going to be watching something with subtitles. I needed comfort.

Chicken tenders. But not merely chicken tenders. The best chicken tenders of my married life. Buttermilk-marinated, so they come out tender in a way that feels almost personal. Hand-breaded, each one rugged and golden as a pirate's doubloon. Crispy enough that you hear the first bite before you taste it.

And honey mustard. Sweet. Sharp. A dip so agreeable it could negotiate a peace treaty.

We shared them on the patio under a heater, our breath fogging, fingers warming one tender at a time. She dipped hers with surgical precision. I double-dipped. She allowed it, which is love.

The movie was three hours long. I don't remember a frame of it. I remember the honey mustard.