Sunday, in a quest for ingredients for chicken and biscuits, I prowled through the poultry section of the local grocery store (the better ones were too far away to make driving in the bad weather worth the trouble) looking for a whole cut-up chicken.
But they only carried whole fryers.
I considered, selected a big fat bird, and took it home almost quivering with anticipation.
Yes, ladies and gentleman. The meat cleaver works. I hacked apart a whole chicken with a great big wicked knife, sustaining no damage to either the knife or the cutting board, but plenty of clean, even, desired damage to the chicken, and it was the pure, visceral poetry of a hunter-gatherer's ancestral idea of a grand old time.
2 comments:
You scare me.
Hee hee. I get to help raise your child long distance, right?
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