Life was a balancing act, and this time the scales were really skewed. The dessert was on one side, and Norman was on the other. It was all a matter of priorities. She had to decide which was more important in the giant scheme of things. The fact that she’d have to spend an extra hour at Heavenly Bodies tomorrow, working off the extra calories her special dessert contained, didn’t count for much when you weighed it against Norman’s disappointment if she didn’t eat it.

The scales tipped in Norman’s favor. And come to think of it, that was a really bad metaphor under her dietary circumstances. All the same, her decision was clear, and Hannah turned to smile at Norman. “That was really thoughtful of you. I can hardly wait to taste it.”

There wasn’t a whole lot you could do with a boneless, skinless chicken breast if you couldn’t use apricot jam for a glaze. Honey with mustard was also out, and not even barbecue sauce was acceptable. Sally had proven herself a master with salt, pepper, garlic, and tarragon. And although Hannah’s entrée was succulent and roasted to perfection, it was still naked chicken. Hannah had eaten enough naked chicken in the past week to populate at least half of Winnie Henderson’s prize-winning coop.

The broccoli was good. It would have been even better with cheese sauce, but dieters couldn’t be choosers. Kathy Purvis, a member of Ronni’s Slim and Trim class, had told Hannah that if she shut her eyes and used her imagination, she could make plain baked chicken taste like filet mignon with burgundy mushroom sauce.

Hannah shut her eyes and tried it. She thought of a succulent filet, so tender she could cut it with a butter knife, so perfectly grilled that the center was still the deep, dark red that she loved. As she chewed the tender beef, the mushrooms would provide a slight resistance to the teeth, and the flavor of good wine paired with the silky, buttery richness of the sauce would form a marriage that would linger long after the morsel was gone.

It was poetic, but it didn’t work. It was still plain chicken. No amount of imagery could make it what it was not. It looked like chicken, it tasted like chicken, and it was silly to pretend that it wasn’t chicken.

“How is your chicken, dear?” Delores asked, smiling at Hannah across the table.

“It’s wonderful, Mother,” Hannah said, not untruthfully. Does a chicken by any other imagining taste the same? Of course it does! Even Shakespeare knew that. But a person can take only so much chicken, and Hannah figured that she was chickened out.