Bucket of Chicken Ornament

We do — the Bucket of Chicken ornament is genuine blown glass, made and painted in-house and sold directly from this page. My uncle Digby, who maintains a confidential ranking of fried chicken establishments, inspected ours before endorsing it, which took longer than most inspections and involved questions we declined to answer. He endorsed it anyway, eventually. The ranking stays sealed.

It would stand out immediately, and at a yankee swap that is a liability worth planning around. Digby watched a cousin pass on the wrapped bucket early, betting on a larger box, and then spend the rest of the game trying to trade back toward it as the room caught on. The larger box held a scarf. He mentions the scarf every single year. Regret is the game's currency.

Yes — it is an excellent coworker gift, particularly for the colleague whose lunch order never changes and never disappoints. Digby maintains that fried chicken people identify each other across a crowded office the way musicians identify perfect pitch, instantly and without discussion. The department will understand the choice immediately, and at least one colleague will be openly jealous. Give it to that person.

Yes — real blown glass, formed as one bucket and painted entirely by hand, from the striped bands up through the stippled breading on the drumsticks. Digby tested the claim by tapping it gently against his reading glasses, a verification method he invented, trusts completely, and recorded in a notebook we may not see. It rang true.

Generous by ornament standards but polite about it — a bucket that fills a cupped palm, reads clearly from a doorway, and shares its branch without crowding the neighbors. It hangs from a standard hook, holds its angle without twisting, and looks like dinner from across the room. Digby has ruled the proportions honest, which from him amounts to a formal finding. The finding is final.

Wrap it in soft tissue, seat it in a rigid box, and keep it somewhere the temperature stays reasonable year-round. Digby stores his beside the good platters, on the theory that serving pieces should winter together. Come December it emerges looking freshly fried, which is more than dinner can say. The paint needs nothing between seasons.

Pair it across the fried-versus-fresh divide: this bucket is the indulgence, so hang the orchard and garden pieces nearby and let the tree argue nutrition with itself. Digby arranges his branch as a balanced plate, chicken at the center, fruit in orbit, and defends the layout as dietary. Guests take sides immediately, and loudly. The fried side recruits better.

It ships in protective packaging engineered for hand-blown glass, not in a gift box — so plan one wrapping step between the doorbell and the recipient. Digby rewrapped his in the sports section, twine bow, and declared the presentation correct for the subject. The packaging handles all of the protecting. The flourish is yours.