I made chicken soup.
I need therapy now. You will think I needed it before. It was a little traumatic.
The story is I have been sick. Of course. One would get a flaming vicious voice gobbling virus before going to a major event planned for 4 months and a defining moment of one’s life. Not a wedding. Shut up. I am as single as ever. My art show!
My mother used to be Jewish, in another life. ( Love you mom. Don’t have to read the blog today. ) I am going to complain for effect but really, it’s a wonderful thing to have someone care that you are near death and hope you recover so they don’t have to raise the grandkids. ( Just kidding mom).
She is sure my house is devoid of vegetables, and I don’t take care of myself. Well……I have been hoping coffee would make it into the crudiferious vegetable group, under Obama care.
“You have to make chicken soup”, she said.
“And make it with vegetables. You know, Tiffany, the ones with vitamins.”
Well. I have vegetables. Once they had vitamins; it might have been under the Bush administration.
I have chickens too. Organic. I throw them food; they fend for themselves. But….they have names.
Guilt plagued me. Coffee is not a food group theme ran around and around in my head like a kid’s guinea pig.
So I went to Trader Joe’s and bought a $14 organic chicken.
…and some vegetables with vitamins
I had to wash that thing. Fourteen dollars and they still need a bath. It’s a little shocking to take them out of the bag. Sick people are that color. They come with a diaper. The grocery store had kindly stuck the liver and guts inside, apparently no one else wants that stuff either. I considered giving it to the dogs. In the end, I just didn’t want to encourage that much carnivore-ism. I would have given them a proper burial…but it was dark.
After abulutions, I dumped her in the soup pot with some vegetable with vitamins. Gallons of water, hoping this pot of soup lasts all flu season.
Picking all the meat off the bones is a good time to ponder life, injustice, death etc. Like why is it called a carcass? I don’t think anything called a carcass should be in the kitchen. In the garage…sure. Under your wheels… maybe, but not on the counter.
Unless you are a taxidermist on the side, after the family goes to bed.
I didn’t include any pictures of the chicken soup making experience. I was afraid it might be a violation of patient confidentiality.
But for you visual people, here is a mock up. It’s ok to look. No real hens were harmed in the making of this documentary.
Oh. And I think I am well now. I feel the healing power of poultry coming on…