During business school, one of my favorite activities was to spend the day wandering Manhattan with my husband. Not aimlessly, but with a list of items we’d need to prepare our dinner that night. After returning to our apartment many miles later, we’d open a bottle of wine and leisurely prepare a scrumptious meal together.
My, how times have changed.
Today Kitten was my cooking companion. Our recipe? Chicken. This was only my second time preparing a whole bird, and suffice it to say that it went much, much better than the first time I attempted the feat. Nevertheless, gone are the days where I leisurely sipped wine while cooking. Instead, the dinner preperations went something like this:
Kitten (Sitting on the counter with a disturbed look on her face as I skinned the chicken): You mean it’s dead? Like really dead?
Me: Well, yes, you can see that it’s really dead.
Kitten: Really, really dead?
Me (Pulling the skin off a leg): Yep, really, really dead.
She then bombarded me with a multitude of questions, including how the chicken died, what they did with the feathers, and whether chickens really count as birds since they don’t fly.
All in all, I thought the discussion went pretty well and frankly I was pleased to have the distraction, as sticking my hands in the netherregions of a rather large poultry isn’t exactly my idea of a terrific afternoon.
Finally, plunking the bird in the crock pot, I asked Kitten if she’d like to see what the inside of the bird looked like once everything was pulled out.
I lifted the bird up and she tentatively peered over the side of the pot.
“For heavens to Betsy,” she exclaimed. “That is disguisting!”
I couldn’t have said it better myself. Maybe a glass of wine isn’t such a bad idea after all.
(I realize I haven’t exactly made a great sales pitch, but for those of you who can stomach the preparation and want a delicious chicken recipe, follow this link. My only recommendation is that you substitute sweet potatoes for regular potatoes. Enjoy!)
