Words From A Beheaded Chicken

I’m not adventurous when it comes to things I eat. If I can see it on the show “Nature” feeding on algae at the bottom of the ocean, I won’t eat. If it has tentacles, I won’t eat it. If it smells or has to be fermented, I won’t eat it. If it slithers, I won’t eat it. IF IT BREATHES, I WILL NOT EAT IT.

Just kidding.  I love eating chicken and… and… well, like I said, I’m not too adventurous. Beef the way it’s cooked in America is too bloody, the way pork is made makes me nervous, and eating any other meat asides from chicken is scary.

Except goats. I eat goats.

Image result for goat meat
This is where all the good stuff is.

Anyway, ignoring the goat, I primarily eat chicken. My mom and grandma cook it in stock, fry it, and use to stock to cook rice. Sometimes, my mom will decided to be healthy (?) and skip frying, leaving us with yellow stock-colored chicken.  It’s not too bad, but she likes to cook all of the chicken at that stage.



Have I not explained over the course of most of my life that if see one strand of a bloody vein, it shall not pass through my mouth?

I do not and never will understand why anyone would want to eat a chicken’s head or feet. Every time I look at that, I shudder, imagining its eyes popping open in horror as it realizes the rest of its body is missing.

My brothers know about my aversion to being anywhere near those parts, so they like to hold out the chicken’s claw and chase me through the house.

Me when they give up:

Oh snap, are they gone with that monstrosity now? 

Then as soon as I peek my head out, I come face to face with a beheaded chicken.

Sigh. I’m starting to wonder if I should start eating tofu.



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