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“The chicken does not exist only in order to produce another egg. He may also exist to amuse himself, to praise God, and even to suggest ideas to a French dramatist.”
― G.K. Chesterton, What's Wrong with the World

“But my favorite remained the basic roast chicken. What a deceptively simple dish. I had come to believe that one can judge the quality of a cook by his or her roast chicken. Above all, it should taste like chicken: it should be so good that even a perfectly simple, buttery roast should be a delight.”
― Julia Child, My Life in France

“Cowards say it can't be done, critics say it shouldn't have been done, creator say well done.”
― Amit Kalantri, Wealth of Words

“It goes without saying that even those of us who are going to hell will get eternal life—if that territory really exists outside religious books and the minds of believers, that is. Having said that, given the choice, instead of being grilled until hell freezes over, the average sane human being would, needless to say, rather spend forever idling in an extremely fertile garden, next to a lamb or a chicken or a parrot, which they do not secretly want to eat, and a lion or a tiger or a crocodile, which does not secretly want to eat them.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana, The Use and Misuse of Children

“In Louisiana, one of the first stages of grief is eating your weight in Popeyes fried chicken. The second stage is doing the same with boudin. People have been known to swap the order. Or to do both at the same time.”
― Ken Wheaton, Sweet as Cane, Salty as Tears

“The gilded confines of the Beauty Hall were not my preferred habitat; like the chicken that had laid the eggs for my sandwich, I was more of a free-range creature.”
― Gail Honeyman, Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

“The German birds didn't taste as good as their French cousins, nor did the frozen Dutch chickens we bought in the local supermarkets. The American poultry industry had made it possible to grow a fine-looking fryer in record time and sell it at a reasonable price, but no one mentioned that the result usually tasted like the stuffing inside of a teddy bear.”
― Julia Child, My Life in France

“I reach down and grab my cock
the rolling scenery in my mind
far from peaceful”
― Wren Verlaine, SPARK

“Whenever I have nothing better to do, I roast a chicken.”
― Jeffrey Steingarten, It Must've Been Something I Ate: The Return of the Man Who Ate Everything

“Pork and chicken grease, the aromatics of choice for the Cajun.”
― Ken Wheaton, Sweet as Cane, Salty as Tears

“All lies, freckled vows, crying-weeping on your toes
Expected jelly beans gusto, got yourself a life imperfecto
Too good a gal, too arrogant a gal
Too independent, too in need of Chanel
Took a careless ride, leaped for a perilous dive
Now look who thrived, who gave you a vibe.
- Chicken In Chicken Out”
― Heenashree Khandelwal, Chicken In Chicken Out

“There now,â€� she said with some satisfaction and, taking careful aim, she shut her eyes and chopped hard. It worked—but Marty was totally unprepared for the next event. A wildly flopping chicken—with no head—covered her unmercifully with spattered blood. “Stop thet! Stop thet!â€� she screamed. “Yer s’pose to be dead, ya—ya dumb headless thing.”
― Janette Oke, Love Comes Softly

“Of all the herbs, Jasmine thought, basil was her soul mate. She rubbed her fingers over a leaf and sniffed deeply at the pungent, almost licorice scent. Basil was sensuous, liking to stretch out green and silky under a hot sun with its feet covered in cool soil. Basil married so well with her favorite ingredients: rich ripe tomatoes, a rare roast lamb, a meaty mozzarella. Jasmine plucked three leaves from her basil plant and slivered them in quick, precise slashes, then tucked them into her salad along with a tablespoon of slivered orange rind. Her lunch today was to be full of surprises. She wanted to impress as well as amuse this particular guest. They would start with a tomato soup in which she would hide a broiled pesto-stuffed tomato that would reveal itself slowly with every sip. Next she would pull out chicken breasts stuffed with goat cheese and mint. Then finish with poached pears, napped heavily in eau-de-vie-spiked chocolate.”
― Nina Killham, How to Cook a Tart

“When she left the store, emboldened, receipt tucked into her purse, folded twice, Janet thought of all the chicken dishes she had not sent back even though they were either half-raw or not what she had ordered. Chicken Kiev instead of chicken Marsala, chicken with mushrooms instead of chicken a la king: her body was made up of the wrong chickens.”
― Aimee Bender, The Color Master: Stories

“The chicken thing let out a whispering cackle.”
― Terry Goodkind, Soul of the Fire

“Nobody seems to know which came first; egg or chicken â€� except of course for agents of the Time Saving Agency â€� who can find out anything about, well â€� anything. The only trouble is, they aren’t talking â€� however, you can take it from me â€� they know. The answer to these and other puzzles are kept safe and secure behind fire-walls and thick security doors secured with, er â€� time-locks, where one could possibly find answers to many other troubling questions, and not all of them necessarily relating to chickens.”
― Christina Engela, The Time Saving Agency

“You know," she confided, "your recipe for Cajun Chicken Pasta? On page twenty-eight?" She nodded toward the book I'd just signed for her.
"Yes?"
"Totally works with skim milk instead of heavy cream." She nodded proudly. "Not that I tried the cream version. I'm sure in a blind taste test that's the one I'd prefer, but skim works!"
I imagined the dish, using milk in the pan with the chicken fond, sun-dried tomatoes, oregano, and blackening spice, and could see where the milk would reduce into a nice thick sauce.”
― Beth Harbison, When in Doubt, Add Butter

“She too looked like a regular lady, living in the world- didn't seem particularly with it or excitable or stellar. But that chicken, bathed in thyme and butter- I hadn't ever tasted a chicken that had such a savory warmth to it, a taste I could only suitably identify as the taste of chicken. Somehow, in her hands, food felt recognized. Spinach became spinach- with a good farm's care, salt, the heat and her attention, it seemed to relax into its leafy, broad self. Garlic seized upon its lively nature. Tomatoes tasted as substantive as beef.”
― Aimee Bender, The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake

“Nine balls of julienned vegetables sit above a dense chicken vinaigrette. The plate looks like a game of noughts and crosses (tic-tac-toe). The table is bathed in a cloud of chicken vapour with a few sprays of eau-de-cologne of roasted chicken. In this way the chicken is everywhere and nowhere all at once.”
― Massimo Bottura, Never Trust A Skinny Italian Chef

“We say cat tastes like chicken when, had we been weaned on kitten stew, we’d say chicken tastes like cat.”
― Jonathan Grimwood, The Last Banquet

“I want to be some body’s dumplinâ€�. I’m not chicken.”
― Amanda Mosher, Better to be able to love than to be loveable

“Until the hen makes a distinctive plan for the eggs, the chicken don’t get hatched [ref Directions In Production Engineering Research, Part II]”
― Priyavrat Thareja

“King David had gotten old. He was so cold and frail that the court appointed a young woman to snuggle with him in his bed. No, they didn't have sex. Though the court did make a point of hiring someone beautiful, just to put a little sizzle in his chicken.”
― Mark Russell

“The chickens? Why those poor little birds live shitty-ass lives before being hauled off in hellish fucking trucks to clusterfucks known as "slaughterhouses", where they're killed by turd-faced asshats who have no sense of decency, and their legs and wings are served at dumbfuck football parties.”
― Granny PottyMouth

“The chicken came first. Now, can we please move on?”
― Ron Brackin

“Are you a fan of escargot?" he asked.
"Not particularly."
"Good." His smile eased onto his lips again. "I get concerned when people eat snails."
I glanced down the menu. "What about chicken?"
"I'm not as concerned."
"Then I'm going to order the poulet a la fermiere."
"What is that?"
I glanced back down at the menu. "It's chicken with cream sauce. A farmwife's bounty, it says, with vegetables and fresh herbs.”
― Melanie Dobson, Chateau of Secrets

“Grace rolled up her sleeves and joined the group in the kitchen, where Gladys, Pablo's wife, had worked all day directing many other women who kept food pouring out the front and side door, onto a long series of folding tables, all covered in checkered paper table cloths. While some of the women prepped and cooked, others did nothing but bring food out and set it on the table- Southern food with a Mexican twist, and rivers of it: fried chicken, chicken and dumplings, chicken mole, shrimp and grits, turnip greens, field peas, fried apples, fried calabaza, bread pudding, corn pudding, fried hush puppies, fried burritos, fried okra, buttermilk biscuits, black-eyed peas, butter bean succotash, pecan pie, corn bread, and, of course, apple pie, hot and fresh with sloppy big scoops of local hand-churned ice creams.
As the dinner hours approached, Carter grabbed Grace out of the kitchen, and they both joined Sarah, Carter's friend, helping Sarah's father throw up a half-steel-kettle barbecue drum on the side of the house. Mesquite and pecan hardwoods were quickly set ablaze, and Dolly and the quilting ladies descended on the barbecue with a hurricane of food that went right on to the grill, whole chickens and fresh catfish and still-kicking mountain trout alongside locally-style grass-fed burgers all slathered with homemade spicy barbecue sauce. And the Lindseys, the elderly couple who owned the fields adjoining the orchard, pulled up in their pickup and started unloading ears of corn that had been recently cut. The corn was thrown on the kettle drum, too, and in minutes massive plumes of roasting savory-sweet smoke filled the air around the house. It wafted into the orchards, toward the workers who soon began pouring out of the house.”
― Jeffrey Stepakoff, The Orchard

“She sighed hard and shook her head, realized she was still staring at the same recipe card in her hand. She propped it against the monitor and read again, Elegant French Pork and Beans, by Carmine Grosz of Huron, South Dakota. She scanned the recipe, which called for haricot beans- a not inelegant bean, Olivia thought. Two kinds of sausage, two cuts of pork. Leeks. Well. This looked like a midwesternized cassoulet- definitely better than the usual "Casserole Corner" fare, which was largely made up of recipes containing endless and minute variations on the same hot dishes, issue after issue. For a couple of years there, chicken and broccoli had been all the rage: Chicken Broccoli Divan, Chicken Broccoli 'Divine', Chicken Broccoli Supreme ("Them's fightin' words," Ruby had told Vivian). Chicken Broccoli Surprise, Chicken Broccoli 'Rice' Surprise (David: "Where's the surprise? You've just listed all the ingredients in the title"). Elegant Company Chicken-Broccoli Casserole. "Which is the inelegant part," Olivia had asked over the phone from college, because she was studying ambiguous reference in her Linguistic Description of Modern English class, "the company or the casserole?”
― Susan Gilbert-Collins, Starting from Scratch

“The plate was filled with rich yellow rice, scarlet peppers, carrot dice, and silky golden onions. Two pieces of chicken, the skin perfectly, evenly browned, nestled in the bed of rice, scattered with minced parsley and cilantro. A few green leaves of salad were on the side, sheathed in vinaigrette, with shards of cheese shaved over the top.
The sear on the chicken was what he most appreciated: staff meal chicken and rice would be only the braised legs, delicious and shredding off the bone but not skillfully browned and crisped solely for the pleasurable contrast of the velvety meat and the rich, salted crackle of skin.”
― Michelle Wildgen, Bread and Butter

“... if a man wishes to eat chicken, do you think he would wish to consume a chicken that has recently been, as you tell me, ‘ranging freeâ€�? Some wild capon, capering about over hill and dale, wholly unsupervised? No! I think not, Mrs. Purvis! If Ambrose Congreve is to eat chicken, he bloody well wants to know where his chicken has been! Every minute of every day!”
― Ted Bell, Pirate