Like chicken? Tastes just like chicken.
I warned my son Cuyler not to get too attached to Marnie, our Reuben-esque Cornish Rock hen. But did he listen? Not a chance. He said he had plans for that chicken. I said I did, too. He planned to show her. I planned to parmesan her. As it turns out, neither of our plans panned out. Why? Because Marnie’s true calling was cutlets. From her one breast, I got enough for two meals. From my two breasts I couldn’t nurse a newborn. Trust me on this.
You would have liked Marnie with her pretty feathers and piercing eyes. But I liked her sliced thin, dipped in egg (generously supplied by one of her hen friends), coated in bread crumbs, and browned to perfection in oil. Lots and lots of big, bad, artery-clogging, butt-broadening oil. Yum.
Yes, we raised her, butchered her, and consumed her. What should you glean from this incredible tale, besides the stunning fact that I cooked and nobody keeled over, and the sense that Frank Perdue and I may soon part company? What should you gather? What should you get?
Scared. Really, really scared.
Why? Because I’m becoming one of those freaks who live off the land. Me! The woman who raised take-out to an art form and perfected it by not ordering from the same restaurant twice in six months. Me! The woman who awakened one Christmas and said, hmm, I’ve got fifteen people coming for dinner today. Should it be Thai? Italian? Chinese? Ooh! Only sweet and sour pork can assuage that hunger pang. So it’s …. Chinese! One phone call and $350 later, it was.
That’s right. Everything I fought about farm life is silently, insidiously, wrapping its paws around my four-inch pumps. The other day I actually toyed with the idea of hitting Tractor Supply for work boots. Work boots? On my feet? And not from Neimans?
And the better question: WHY? Why would I need work boots? Was I actually considering GOING OUTSIDE?
All I can say is, whoever took me better return me. Pronto. I like the old, disdainful, citified Suzy. This new chick who raises chicks and then chows ’em down I could do without.
Marnie, we hardly knew ya. And Sue, it looks like we’ll miss you, too.
Susan McCorkindale writes about life on the funny farm on her daily blog, or just buy the book, Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl.
An original DC Metro Moms post.
