this one is for Maile.

I bought a little chicken from my local butcher, which prides itself on local, grass-fed meats, which are without fail expensive and delicious. They also have the best eggs I've ever eaten. A bold sign outside declares "New England Can Feed Itself", and despite the freezing temperatures and how tired I am of turnips and kale, I almost believe them.

Given this fierce local/organic approach to their wares, I should have expected what happened. When I got home with a little chicken marked - get this - "Buddhist Style". And indeed, little chicken looks heart-meltingly serene: its little feet were tucked underneath it in a perfect lotus pose, and its head, still very much attached, bent prayerfully to one side. Hello, little chicken! (Typically, they ask me if I want it butchered, but I think they forgot and I assumed.)

I'm not quite sure what to do with it. Do I confess that I am a sissy and take it the mile walk back to the butcher, and make them lop off its extremities? Or man up (as it were) and butcher the thing myself? It brings back memories of my dad saying the reason he never eats chicken is watching his mother kill one by catching it and breaking its neck. My husband certainly doesn't want to play Barber of Tremont Street.

I'm not sure if this will turn me back into a vegetarian, or teach me to finally Get Over It, that my delicious roast bird ones had a face and feet. The rest of the world would surely sigh in impatience that I would even be thinking twice about this.

I think I'll call her Marie Antoinette. The beheading is scheduled for 5pm this evening.

all in a pretty row