Chicken Little Intelligence
Once upon a time, when Zane and I returned from our honeymoon, we bought a whole chicken. I had heard that this was a cheaper way of making chicken and was a fairly easy endeavor.
Six to eight months later, I moved that chicken from the freezer to the fridge to thaw for a few days.
My newlywed heart was very naive and excited about cooking, no matter what feats must be accomplished. I took that chicken out of the fridge and put it in the sink. Then I threw away those nasty insides and started trying to figure out how to cut it up.
Everyone said it was easy to do.
I sawed and pulled and yanked that chicken around. I broke it's back and wings and ribs. I threw scraps of raw poultry meat into a bucket and scraps of unidentified poultry nastiness into another one. I gave up on the wings, wondering how anyone gets the meat off those little bones. After nearly an hour, my back hurt, my fingers hurt, my brain hurt. It's incredibly NOT easy to pull apart raw meat from the bone.
I had been traumatized by tearing apart a once-living being. I better understood why people go vegetarian. I finished my chicken off and threw away the carcass, glad to be done with my disgusting task.
Then I immediately updated my facebook status to something along the lines of, "I hate making a whole chicken. I'll never do it again! It's so gross!" To which, many women replied, "Me too!" "Eww!" "I don't do them either!"
A few days later, I told the story to my coworkers, to which, my boss replied, "We cook our chicken first. Then it just kind of falls off the bones."
I identify with butchers.
Six to eight months later, I moved that chicken from the freezer to the fridge to thaw for a few days.
My newlywed heart was very naive and excited about cooking, no matter what feats must be accomplished. I took that chicken out of the fridge and put it in the sink. Then I threw away those nasty insides and started trying to figure out how to cut it up.
Everyone said it was easy to do.
I sawed and pulled and yanked that chicken around. I broke it's back and wings and ribs. I threw scraps of raw poultry meat into a bucket and scraps of unidentified poultry nastiness into another one. I gave up on the wings, wondering how anyone gets the meat off those little bones. After nearly an hour, my back hurt, my fingers hurt, my brain hurt. It's incredibly NOT easy to pull apart raw meat from the bone.
I had been traumatized by tearing apart a once-living being. I better understood why people go vegetarian. I finished my chicken off and threw away the carcass, glad to be done with my disgusting task.
Then I immediately updated my facebook status to something along the lines of, "I hate making a whole chicken. I'll never do it again! It's so gross!" To which, many women replied, "Me too!" "Eww!" "I don't do them either!"
A few days later, I told the story to my coworkers, to which, my boss replied, "We cook our chicken first. Then it just kind of falls off the bones."
I identify with butchers.
Comments
Love,
Uncle Mac