For Sunday dinner, I lovingly prepared freshly killed chickens baked with root vegetables in butter.
I took the birds, slaughtered the previous day, rinsed them as usual, put them in the pot and baked until done.
It all looked fine. We sat down to eat. I took my chef’s knife and cut up the birds. When I cut the first one it smelled … not right. I put my nose close and only smelled herbs and chicken. It seemed odd. What could possibly be wrong with a chicken that was so freshly killed, kept on ice, put in the fridge and then baked? I shrugged and served up the food.
Everything was fine until my husband took a bite of his. “WHAT DID YOU PUT IN THIS?” he gagged.
“Um… basil and rosemary… some butter… salt…?”
“Something is terribly wrong.”
He went to the kitchen to spit and came to show me what was on his fork. At first it looked like it could be a clump of cooked herbs. But as he came closer he and I both realized that it was much, much worse than that.
It was a forkful of chicken poo.
“I just ate chicken s***,” he kept saying, dazed.
He felt a little sick.
I still don’t exactly know what internal organ I was supposed to have checked and cleaned properly. But believe me, I will be halving the raw birds and checking them out thoroughly before cooking next time.
When there is a next time, that is. I’m pretty sure it will be a while before my poor traumatized husband can eat chicken again. Good thing our cow comes in next week.
Go ahead, tell me your kitchen failure. Does it top this?