The Incident Involving the Dead Chicken

My sister sent me a really yummy-looking recipe that called for a whole chicken to be rubbed all over with spices and stuffed with a quartered lemon. Here it is: http://www.thelittlekitchen.net/2011/02/03/whole-chicken-in-a-slow-cooker/ (See? I can be a helpful blogger!)

Since I am ALL ABOUT easy recipes, I decided to make it. However, after this morning's ensuing fiasco, I have comprised a list of reasons that left me with this conclusion: I wouldn't survive half a New York minute on a farm. "Aw, Kris, I thought you were a tough girl." I AM TOUGH. AS PUDDING. Now, the chicken in this recipe was, like, a WHOLE chicken. The kind with a bag of quivering giblets in it. And the neck stuffed inside of the chicken's body, looking like some kind of awkward, inside-out....phallic...body part. For the record, chickens that are dead and have no feathers...are kind of freaky looking. They're all pale and headless with their awkward little wings. So yeah. Here's why I'm probably never going to be able to make this again, even though it was, like, the best meal I've made in a really long time. (As in, the last week.)

1) After nearly forgetting how many days the chicken was thawing in the fridge, I decided at 8 AM this morning that I absolutely MUST make this chicken today. And I only have 7 minutes to do the prep work. Lucky for me, hubs was willing to accommodate and assist my whirlwind preparations. MY HERO! (He insisted I put the hero part in the story. And it's true.)

2) As hubby rolls up his sleeves and plops the chicken in the sink to rinse it and pull out the *gag* giblets, and *double gag* cut off the *shudder* chicken's neck, I realize we are wearing twin faces of revulsion.

3) Hubs plops the rinsed corpse onto a plate so I can pat it dry with some paper towels. As I move my hands toward the pale carcass, an alarm in my head starts clanging. DO NOT <clang> TOUCH <clang> THIS <clang clang clang> NASTY SLIMY THING. My hands immediately retract. I try to go for it again. My hands again retract. Hubby laughs. I concentrate harder. CLANG CLANG CLANG.

4) After I somehow managed to survive the horror of patting the chicken dry, I then had to rub garlic and spices all over it. Essentially, giving the chicken an all-over body scrub-slash-massage. I got through this part with just a  few dry-heaves and with shrieking kept to a quiet minimum.

5) After I used barbecue tongs to jam the quartered lemon pieces inside the dead beast, (I refused to put my hand inside that thing) I needed to transfer the chicken to the crockpot. There's no easy way to complete this task except by just picking it up and putting it in the crockpot. Simple, right?

6) I grabbed the chicken, holding it at arms-length, hauled it up, gag-screamed, and practically threw it into the crockpot. The memory of the bones mushing all around under my hands haunts me hours later.

Ironically, I can have the most horribly gross conversation while eating a meal and not be even slightly fazed. However, somehow, the thought of a naked, floppy, goose-bumpy chicken was enough to make me act like a total side show. Well, at least hubby was amused. I'll close this little story with a heart-wrenching clipperoo of our g-chat conversation later in the day:

 Chris:  dinner will be yum yum.  :-)

 me:  I hope.

 Chris:  That was fun making it this morning. You are hilarious

 me:  It was a disaster

 Chris: it was insanely fun. you were so utterly appalled by handling the chicken, and you were like whirlwind x10

 me:  hahaha

 Chris:  your life brings endless joy to my life

 me:  did you tell your coworkers?

 Chris:  nah. Your aversion to touching a chicken is my little secret