I am under the weather today; I started getting a scratchy throat Sunday on my way to a work event in Rhode Island. I thought maybe I was just thirsty. No, unfortunately, four days later, I’m in the throes of a full blown flu.

So, what is a single gal to do? Sleep, watch old movies and make good ol’ fashioned chicken soup; the Greek way, of course, with egg and lemon. By the way, I am still wearing my “Kiss Me I’m Greek” apron.

I took a stroll over to Whole Foods in the rain. I considered driving but I had already accumulated $100 worth of parking tickets today so, I thought it best to leave my car behind. Let me digress a second… I hate the parking situation in the North End.

Anyway, I was so happy to find organic, grain-fed chicken which I scooped right up into my basket. I’ve been seeing such awful things about how the poor cluckers are treated, after reading the packaging, it sounded like my little guy lived a decent life. Up until he had his head chopped off, mind you.

I had prepared myself mentally and emotionally for “the bag.” You know, the giblets. The last time I worked with a whole chicken, I was directed, to my dismay, to “pull the bag out of the chicken before you stick it in the pan.” “Uh, what bag? And, from where?????” were my immediate thoughts. After I pulled it out of it’s fanny, I suspected that would be the last time I made chicken. But, alas, here I am again.

Can I just tell you? Nothing would have prepared me for the scene unfolding before my eyes. As I cut the bag open, I couldn’t help but notice white things sticking out of the chicken’s body. Yes, feathers. “Are you kidding me???” I thought. I immediately called my mother. Who, once again, was completely lacking in any sort of empathy. She suggested I pluck them! What! With the tweezers I use for my brows? The ones I paid $15 for at Sephora? I don’t think so.

                                                                                                                

It doesn’t end there. If that wasn’t bad enough, when I pulled it completely out of the bag, the neck unfolded like an erect penis! I nearly fainted. It was at least three inches long, almost half the size of the bird! She didn’t believe me when I screamed. I had to take a picture with my phone and send it. She texted back, “Cut NECK off!”

I did it. I chopped that little sucker off with my Cutco cleaver. I teared up when I heard the crack but, I followed through. I was actually pretty proud of myself. I gave Tweety a trim, rubbed him down with a little olive oil and proceeded as planned.

I had a lovely chicken dinner with soup on the side. In fact, I think I’m starting to feel better already.