“Amazing breakthrough in breeding! World record holder! Developed in secrecy, the first Super Chicken is now public.”

My older sibling read the headlines aloud before showing me the photo.

“This bird has 70% more thigh and breast meat and will revolutionize the food industry.”

I couldn’t yet read the words on the page, but a bizarrely portioned large bird stared back at me from the center of the layout. Its body looked too big for its legs, and feathers spouted out in all directions.

“You know, Lynda. That bird weighs about as much as you,” he began.

“Really?”

“And it kind of looks like you –” he continued.

“Does not,” I shot back as my lip quivered.

“Oh yes, it does. In fact, I think you are a Super Chicken.”

Mind you, this is the same sibling who tried to convince me that red was really green only a few months before. My academic or psychological development wasn’t really his concern. Typical older brother, sibling harassment was his primary goal. With this prize in mind, he began to call me Super Chicken at every turn.

To be honest, four-year-old me did have scrawny legs, a pot belly and fly-away hair. There was, at least, an abstract resemblance.

And so, the name stuck. In my family, at least, I was Super Chicken for years. And except for the early 1980s, where the term “Super Chick” had a moment and a completely different meaning, this was not cool.

Here is the true paradox. My family didn’t eat chicken, because my father wouldn’t eat chicken. Whenever it was suggested, he would intone, “Did you ever see what a chicken eats?” As if that explained the ban.

Chicken was held in such disdain that I remember being chastised for ordering fried chicken during a rare night out at a restaurant. “You shouldn’t waste money by ordering chicken. There are better choices on the menu.” The scolding dimmed the excitement of the occasion.

And if, as a teenager, I was to argue a point that my father found ridiculous, he wouldn’t yell. Instead, he’d harken back to his contempt for poultry and their stupidity. My father would simply ask, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” and then ignore me. Which, in retrospect, was better parenting than I have exhibited at times.

So, if poultry was worthy of scorn, what did it mean that I had a fowl nickname?

While a psychotherapist might have an answer, my family would say that any analysis was for the birds. Only a dumb cluck would think the two were related. This quandary has left me with an affection for all things chicken. Poultry exhibits at the county fair, chicken folk art and feathery language all command my interest. Which is why the current slang of “chicken allowance” caught my eye. This term is so new that a Google search only turns up articles about town ordinances and taxes.

So, what is a “chicken allowance?” Basically, if you cross the traditional meaning of “chicken feed” (a small amount of money) with the deliciousness of rotisserie chicken, you end up with a “chicken allowance.” After doing the verbal math, it is a small amount of extra money to buy snacks, specifically the aforementioned chicken.

The term began when a woman on Threads posted that she was receiving anonymous funds with a cryptic label, “for rotisserie chicken.” In a spark of joyfulness rarely seen on social media, some have begun sending a “chicken allowance” to strangers via cash apps. In tough times, it’s a simple joy to share.

And what should you do if you receive such funds? First, savor that mahogany-skinned masterpiece with its crunchy skin and moist meatiness. Second, pass it on, so another person can enjoy a succulent treat. And finally, be sure to shout from your roost, “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!”