Sure I could have found a babysitter and gone out and partied the night away. But then I wouldn’t have gotten to scare Hope with a headless chicken…
It was hysterical. I had a whole (well, you know) chicken. I didn’t have a clue what to do with it. I IMed a friend, and she gave me directions, brought me one of those can-roasting-racks–you know, put half a can of soda in the middle and get a yummy moist bird? And more directions.
Fortunately she mentioned I needed to remove what was already inside. I might have remembered that on my own. But considering I’ve only dealt with Whole Bird once before, (turkey, thanksgiving, those are EASY to find directions for…) I probably wouldn’t have.
It was the squeals of “Ick!” that attracted Hope. Yes, I did grow up on a farm, and yes, we raised and ate chickens. I used to help pluck. I’ve seen a headless bird chase my little brother (by coincidence?) long enough to have inflicted permanent trauma. (laughed my butt off, too. Hey, I was like, nine.)
So here I am, with neck, gizzard, liver and heart in my hand. Hope thought that was just fascinating–as long as I was the one holding it. I dealt with those, rinsed the bird inside and out just because I thought I should, and stuck that darn thing on the can.
Whattaya know, it fit. And it looked so darn silly there on that can, I couldn’t resist. It did a little dance for Hope. Which, as she put it, “seriously freaked” her out.
Ahh yes, a family tradition. Inflicting trauma with headless birds.