My love affair with chicken began when I was five years old and decided that it was the only thing that I would eat for every meal. For some reason my parents allowed this, in what I can only imagine was a baseless hope that, being five, I would lose interest within the hour. Having known me for five years, they should have known better. We settled in for a battle of wills that lasted until breakfast on day five when instead of the chicken dish that I was expecting, my father firmly placed a bowl of cream of wheat in front of me. So technically they gave up, and I won, right?