When did we women decide that everyone else should come first? Who proclaimed it our job to guarantee the pleasure of others and settle for whatever crumbs fall off their plates?

I’ve come to call this compulsion the Chicken Back Syndrome: preparing a chicken dinner, encouraging our husbands and children to take the best pieces—the breast, thighs and legs—and insisting that we actually like the chicken back best. Somehow, without question, everyone believes we’re just crazy enough to prefer bones and gristle. After awhile, we even convince ourselves that those tiny scraps of meat buried between the ribs are worth the effort. […]