In an parallel life, I live on a farm, have chickens and want to roast one for dinner. So I chase it around the coop, my hair flying behind me, along with my skirts and aprons. I finally catch it and WHACK! Being the expert farm girl, I easily remove its feathers and innards (not sure what they are called here in this life) and viola it’s ready for the kitchen.
Now, here I stand in my reality kitchen with this chicken I’ve just removed from the bag. My recipe calls for rubbing olive oil, garlic, lemon and rosemary under its skin, to loosen it all I have to do is slide my hand “up in there.” O.K. here I go. It feels slimy.
Surprisingly, I find comfort in this way of cooking from which I seem to have drifted. I’d bet that the majority of my friends have not been this intimate with a chicken before. I feel connected to this bird, that was once alive and gave it’s life to feed my family.
I feel proud about this chicken, whom I developed a relationship with. I fininsh lathering more seasoning over her back, breats and legs, tie her up and roast her in the oven for a few hours.
