We often buy eggs from the poultry farmer at the East Lake Farmers Market, the Little Red Hen. We've ordered a Thanksgiving turkey from her, and the other day we purchased a little hen, whose original colors I never knew. At the Morningside Farmers Market on Saturday I picked up some sweet potatoes. It was cold this weekend, so I wanted foods we could roast, possibly while wearing our matching Snuggies embroidered with the family seal. (Note to self: find out if we can get Snuggies embroidered with our family seal, also, dog-sized...?)
Jeremiah rubbed that chicken all over with herbs I grew in my garden, then stuffed her into the oven like she was the witch from Hansel and Gretel, and it smelled the house up something wonderful. Usually, I prefer the dark meat from a bird because all too often, I feel, the white meat is a bit dry. When Jeremiah cut into the roasted chicken, and we sampled a bit of its breast, I remembered what chicken tastes like. I think the last time I had real chicken was when I was in, oh, maybe, 4th grade, and I spent the night at Jennifer Baker's house and her dad killed a chicken for that night's dinner. We got to watch as he literally gave it the axe and sure enough, the beheaded fowl leapt up and began running all over the yard and I thought "ooooh, so that's what they're talking about". Since then, it's been these huge-breasted chickens. No wonder the meat seemed dry. They're fake boobs. Chicken starlets. Chicklets. Tastes like a lot of stuff, but not chicken.
Kate rejected the roasted sweet potatoes out of hand and, when we insisted she eat a bite of potato, she declared "when I grow up, I'm going to become a carnivore". I later walked into the kitchen, where the remnants of the bird lay, awaiting our attendance, to find this scene:
Usually it's the pets caught doing this.