I'm not entirely sure what possessed me, but I today I decided that would make chicken soup, homemade- from- scratch chicken soup.
Let me just pause here and review my culinary achievements-- I can make a consistently fabulous quiche, excellent fried potatoes with sundried tomatoes, and salad (occasionally topped with skinless, boneless grilled chicken). Aside from that, I am limited to what can be boiled, sauced, and consumed. But I figure soup is boiled, right? How hard can it be? People the world over eat chicken soup in some manifestation, don't they?
So after our walk, I googled "easy chicken soup recipe." Got hundreds of hits-- sites from the Food Network (Hello, Alton) to "Mama's best for a cold." I chose one that looked simple-- boil a chicken, pull the meat off, add the vegetables, simmer, enjoy. Hah. I could do this.
I quickly walked to the local grocery store for the chicken and celery. Amid a few minor misgivings, I picked a chicken.
This might be a good time to explain that I have a few food-related quirks. I don't like to eat foods that look like what they were before they became dinner-- whole lobsters, crabs, or meat on the bone. I think it’s the legs. During Thanksgiving, I can't watch my brother in law carve the turkey but have no problem eating the results of his labor. The exceptions to this loosely defined rule are shrimp wearing only their tails and mussels because they don't resemble real animals anyway. When I'm making dinner if I encounter anything that suggests the ingredient before me had another life, I get queasy.
Back to the story at hand, I quickly reviewed with the helpful woman behind the deli counter that I had chosen the correct fowl for the job and verified that yes, it would have to be cleaned out. (I vaguely remember learning that the gizzards and such were stuffed inside turkeys so thought this might be the same.)
Back in the kitchen I encountered the first problem. I cut the plastic and dumped the bird unceremoniously on the counter. I didn’t want to touch it. It looked like a small, dead animal (which of course, it is). Its little legs and wings were tucked against its body. Gingerly, I flipped it over. Where's the hole to pull out the guts? After staring at it for five minutes, I knew there was no way I'd stick my hand into this thing. I call Alan. After expressing his disbelief that I couldn’t find the guts (I lied. I didn't tell him that I was so repulsed that I couldn’t touch it.) he flipped it around, jammed his whole hand into it, and pulled out who-knows-what. I stifled a gag. He rinsed it, dropped it in the pot, and left for Home Depot.
The chicken was now bathing in a gently boiling bath of hot water. The recipe said to do this for about 40 minutes. So here's the second problem-- I maneuvered the bird out of the pot using a salad tong and a big spoon. The skin split along its back. I shifted it in the bowl by pulling on its leg. It separated from the body. I really don't think I can do this. It still looked like a chicken to me, not like an innocuous piece of meat. I tossed a modesty towel over it while it cooled, telling myself it's to help it cool more slowly to preserve the flavor (not sure where I came up with that one) when really covering it allowed me to avoid looking at it. In the meantime, I chopped the veggies. No problem there. Carrots don't have beating hearts. Ever.
After the recommended cool down period, I tentatively peeked under the towel. I can do this. It's just a bird. People do this all the time. It's not like I'm a chicken (no pun intended). I am adventurous. I am daring.
I touched its skin. It was gray. I attempted to peel it back with a fork. It split. I turned the casserole bowl it's in-- maybe the other side would be better, easier. It isn't. I couldn’t do this. I just couldn’t. And suddenly not only did I not want to touch it, I didn’t even want it in the kitchen. Frantically I grabbed two plastic grocery bags. (I was afraid it might break through one and then I'd have to pick it up.)
Arranging the bags over the carcass, I flipped it, bowl and all, into the bags, looked away, retrieved the bowl, and quickly tied the handles closed. Then it was out the back door into a waiting trash can.
I just threw away dinner. The guilt. The waste. Now what? Alan was expecting homemade chicken soup. I feel like a failure.
There was boneless, skinless chicken breast in the refrigerator. I cooked some of that and then substituted it for the whole one figuring he’d never know the difference. I cooked it, chopped it up (no skin, bones or legs here), and tossed it into the broth with the veggies. I am saved from culinary embarrassment.
Alan came home, looked in the pots on the stove, mentioned the great smells then asked what I did with the bones. He dipped a spoon into the pot. His expression told me it wasn’t good. I know I looked guilty. I confessed almost instantly. His reaction confused me. He seemed puzzled that I couldn’t dismember a chicken. My squeamishness surprised him.
The moment passed.
It looks like we'll be having salad for dinner tonight.
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