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Tell a Friend A lady named
 

Hail the Fowl

 

I create exciting meals for my family.

Heathy, nutritional feasts to fortify even the fussiest of diners.

Sultry, sensuous, steamy meals of mouthwatering magnificent munchies for which I could invited friends, neighbours and royalty to enjoy.

Yes friends, I have been inspired to prepare, with love and tenderness, the intestinal remains of fowl carcass.

Eyeing the supermarket refrigerated meat section, gazing over many pieces of flesh, taking note of expiry dates, the lucky fowl falls into sight. And beside it, a little prepacked "surprise bag" of gizzards.

Little legs bound together, little wings folded neatly at the sides, the headless entity beckons.

It comes home with me, has a warm refreshing bath in my sink. It's puckered little poultry flesh goosebumps in rapture as oil is delicately rubbed into it.

The soft squishy sighs erupt as my hand fills it to capacity with breads, onions, seasonings. Gently cooing soft encouragements...

"You can take more.. just a little more.. that's it..."

A quick episiotomy ensures all the stuffing will fit. A slice of bread fits just right to hold it all in, with a few stitches for good measure. The little legs are rebound, a little pat and the carcass slides carefully into the roasting pan to bubble and bake happily for the next several hours.

I reach for the ... um...bag'o'guts.

Now bear with me. I swear I'm told they are a delicacy, simmered for an hour, till tender.. sautéed with onions and garlic, served over mashed potatoes.

I am also told, should you be one with extreme talent, that if you place the heart *just so* on your tongue, you can make it dance much to the enjoyment and amusement of your dinnertime companions.

Never again will you Martha Stewart’s look at poultry the same. Never again will you neglect to pamper and caress the flesh of the fowl that gave it's life for you. Lying it's little chicken neck across the chopping block, eyes lifted to the heavens, it's last words;

"Eat me"

Well, it SOUNDS like "bwAAAAAAAk", but we all know he means "eat me".

Four hours later..........

"Ahhh little fowl, you taste divine"

Mr Happy glares across the table.

"Stop talking to your food, it makes me feel guilty"

I smile at my plate comfortingly.

Mr Happy glares again.

"Lookit, I just want to eat, I don't want to know about this dumb bird laying it's neck on some chopping block!"

Damian chews on some gizzard.

"Tasty heart from a fine bird, Dave"

Mr Happy puts his fork down.

"Come ON! Can't we just eat it without talking about it's life BEFORE it became sliced on our table? Let's not talk about chickens anymore, ok? Ok."

We spend the next few minutes in silence, eating our meal. Only to have it interrupted with a quiet sound from Lucifers corner of the table.

"bwaaak"

Mr Happy looks at him, he looks up at Mr Happy innocently.

It's quiet again for a few more minutes. Except at Damian's corner of the table.

"bwaaak bwaaak"

Impossibly held giggles scream to escape from our lips, at the look on Mr Happy's face.

It's quiet again for a few minutes.

I put my fork down.

"Honey?"

He blinks, looks up..

"What?"

"Why'd the chicken cross the road?"

And thusly make a mad dash from the kitchen before having a drumstick ping me in the head.

 T O P

M O R E from D A V E

 

Unless otherwise specified, all material Copyright 2000 by Dave

     

 

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