A silly little "essay" that I had to write for a creative non-fiction class.
The Chicken Dance
There is something so simple and gratifying in fabricating a chicken. I stand alone, in my kitchen, heavy metal blasting from the cheap speakers plugged into my phone. I stand alone, facing this naked, dead bird -- one feather quill still sticking out of a wing.
I take my razor sharp, bone defying knife and make the first incision. Metallica blares "Ride the Lightening," and I think of Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer." But I've just started this dance with these chickens.
The pieces and portions fall seamlessly from the carcass as I massacre this poor bird, the bird that will feed my baby birds. I rip off the fat and toss it in the bowl that awaits in the sink. Caveman-like, I rip the carcass in two and throw that in the waiting bowl. The portions and pieces are tossed aside, waiting for the meal that will make them more than they are.
After three or four of these, I toss the fat and bones into a sizzling skillet. I toss them quickly, making sure they brown lightly, stick to the pan a bit, but don't turn too dark. Chicken broth is supposed to be light.
I turn to my veggies and chop some celery and carrots and onions, careful to make them uniform and beautiful even though no one will ever see them. They give themselves to me and this broth willingly, knowing their sacrifice will never be acknowledged.
I toss them unceremoniously into the skillet and toss them around with my spatula. Otep screams to me about "Crooked Spoons." I'm careful with my spoons, but my vegetable children are broken. Their sacrifice is heavenly.
It's time for the wine. In the words of Julia Child, "A little wine for the chicken, a little wine for the cook." I sip the slightly sweet dry white wine as I pour a dash into the sizzling pan.