Vol. 2: Tyson Chicken Salad Lunch Kit

Having a hectic schedule these days means a person will, invariably, resort at some point to convenience foods.  After this happens enough, one develops a pretty good idea of what to expect from a given product.  Things labeled 'lunch' should really be renamed 'snack,' 'low sodium' should say 'has no flavor,' et cetera.  So when I picked up the deceptively nicely packaged Tyson Chicken Salad Lunch Kit at 7-Eleven, the following thoughts ran through my mind:

1.)  It's Tyson, so at least the chicken won't suck.

2.)  It says 'lunch,' which means 'snack' and I need some chips.

3.)  Old hot dogs smell funny.

Granted, the last one was unrelated, but enough digressions.  I've had several of these kit snacks before, each with their own unique foibles to prevent them from kicking @ss.  Sometimes the tuna would be dry, or the mayo would taste off, or the crackers would be odd, but usually the end result is still largely enjoyable.  That having been said, let us begin discussing the nauseating train wreck that is this so-called 'kit.'

The first thing you notice after opening up the can of chicken is that, for the amount of broth in the can, the chicken itself is dry as $hit.  And I mean turd that's been in the sun so long it's turned white dry as $hit.  So after you've drained off the broth (into the conveniently provided bottom of the package), and managed to pry the 'chicken' out of it's can-shaped coffin with a pathetic attempt at a spoon (a flat piece of wood; other kits at least give you a baby plastic one), you are ready to embark on your creative salad-making adventure!

Your choices here are simple: a single packet of Hidden Valley mayo (seriously, guys.. Stick with Ranch.  I didn't even know that Hidden Valley made mayo until I saw this packet.  I think that's for good reason) and a tiny packet of generic sweet relish.  Whoo-ee!  The suspense is killing me!  At this point, after squeezing the 'desired amount' of condiments on your chicken, you realize that the can was of chunk chicken (in their defense, it does say that on the front in really tiny letters).  Chunk chicken does not shred easily, nor does it drain well, because of the amount of broth retained inside the freakin' chunk.  So after you manage to break the chunks down with your wobbly toothpick of a spoon, you will discover that your 'salad' is now a mayonnaise-flavored soupy mess with chopped pickle.  Yummy!

Which then makes you turn your attention to the crackers.  After all, you have to put this soupy crap salad on something, don't you?  Of course, what they failed to mention on the cover (which makes the crackers look deceptively like Ritz) is that these “things” they are referring to as “crackers” are actually defined as “disk-shaped single-layer cardboard by-product with wheat flavoring added.”  In other words, imagine a nice, tasty Wheat Thin or Whole Weat Ritz, or maybe one of those new Wheat Toll House crackers, place it on an old moving box, and then step on it.  Four or five times.  Take the resulting mess and re-form it into a cracker by magic, and that’s roughly the equivalent of what you end up with.

The result?  A soupy, half-@ssed “salad” which you can barely scrape out with the “spoon” onto “crackers” and then, under protest, shove into your maw.  Gag, choke, swallow, and then, for some ungodly reason, repeat five more times.  I, fan of canned meat and by-products of all sorts, did not finish it.  That should tell you something.

The Verdict

1/5.  The only way I’m going to eat this again is if someone pays me to.  Or if I’m starving to death and have no other options.