Ah, golden baked chicken, sitting in your plastic dome under the warmer lights, your clock-shaped sticker telling me you came out of the rotisserie spa only a half-hour ago. Your succulent aromas caress my post-work food-deprived senses. Your selection is difficult: traditional, lemon pepper or barbecue? I choose the traditional, 'cause I'm feeling a little Betty Draper that day.
You are a tired woman's answer to prayers, rotisserie chicken. You're so versatile. You can be served up sliced with veggies. You are delicious in salads; my favorite is rotisserie chicken on a bed of spring mix, with a balsamic viagrette and a few fresh, plump blueberries and maybe a sprinkle of chopped walnuts.
You also do well in wraps. The possible combinations of dressings and sauces, cheeses and veggies with you seem endless.
Thank goodness for you, rotisserie chicken. You might not complete me, you might not be the best thing that ever happened to me, but did you ever know that you're my hero?
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