No. It all started when one of them became a rooster. And "became" really isn't the right word because it was a rooster all along. We just didn't know it until 5:58 a.m. on Tuesday, July 26th when it started crowing. Or cock-a-doodle-dooing. Or roostering. Or whatever it is you call it when those birds pierce the quiet, peacefulness of dreamland sleep with squawking at decibels matched only by those at a Bon Jovi concert.
Farming sat bolt right up in bed. "OH MY GOD!"
We'd had our suspicions. This particular bird was bigger than the others. But, you know. Chicks grow at different rates. Like kids, right? Yeah. Sure.
It had a pretty big comb and chin waddle. Bigger than the others had. But, you know......Actually, I have no idea. I don't know how big a chin waddle is supposed to be. Unless, it's a double chin. That I know. Anyway....
It had, and this should really have been the defining clue, teal tail feathers. Yes, I said teal. Much greener than turquoise, but not blue enough to be cobalt. Teal. Tail feathers. Pretty.
Prince Farming loved this bird. It was his favorite. We called it Daisy. It was Daisy, the Body Walking Chicken.
So when Daisy began roostering at 5:58 in the morning, Farming was visibly distressed.
"COME HERE! GET OVER HERE! YOU'RE GONNA' BE DINNER!"
And he chased it around the yard with a box, finally trapping it behind the coop with my red muck bucket, where it continued to screech and scream for the rest of the day until Farming came back with a giant cage and forced me to help him get the bird from the bucket to the cage to the back of the truck.
"Just pick up the cage."
"I'm trying. I'm afraid it's going to get my fingers."
"Just pick up the cage!"
And the bird slides down the bottom of the cage until it's pressed up against the bars and we're eye to eye and it's looking at me like it wants my face for dinner and I freak out and trip over the edge of the coop and almost drop the cage and it screeches and screams some more. Farming, not the rooster.
"Come on! Just pick it up!"
Now, I have never been the chicks' biggest fan. I've never been the chicks' smallest fan. I've never been the chicks' fan at all, but I don't think that they should die just because they turn out to be boys. I like boys. Boys are cool. Boys are not food.
"It's a bird," he said.
"Yeah, but you love that bird."
"It's a rooster. I loved it when it was a hen."
"So, just because it's a boy, you don't love it anymore. That's a little sexist, don't you think?"
"No."
"You can't kill it just because it's a boy. We have a boy. I wouldn't want someone to eat him just because he's got a Y chromosome and doesn't like sparkle shoes."
"It's not our son. It's a bird. I'm getting it out of here."
"I won't eat it."
"Whatever."
That's how it started. With that ridiculous rooster.
In our household, the wife makes the list and the husband goes to the store. Wandering through the aisles of the Grocery Outlet calms him down when he's stressed about work. I mainline chocolate, but...to each his own. I digress.
After this unfortunate rooster incident, I was terrified to eat any chicken that he brought home for fear that it was Daisy. I just didn't want to do it. Didn't want to take the chance. Even if it said Foster Farms on it. Even if it was stamped by the USDA. That can all be faked, you know. Little plastic wrap. Little sticker making machine. Bam. You're in business to fool your wife into eating the rooster that used to walk on your head.
Well, I was not born yesterday. Nor, do I come from a place that discusses where dinner comes from.
"A gourmet chef at a 5 star restaurant made this? Good enough for me." is where I come from. Okay? So, I don't want to think about eating food that I know has a face...or a mother.
"What about steak?" he asked me. Kind of snarky, too.
"I don't know that cow."
"Fish?"
"I've never looked a salmon in the eye."
"Turkey?"
"Okay...you know what, Mr. Sexist Farmer Guy? I'm done. I'm done eating meat. So there."
"Yeah, right."
I'm not kidding. I'm done. I've gone Veg. I tried to go Vegan but it was a little extreme for me. I need cream for my coffee, and maybe some cheese every now and then. Eggs I can give up, but I need cream and cheese.
And you know what? It's been two weeks and I feel fantastic! Everything's fresh fruits and vegetables and whole grains and nuts. I'm down five pounds doing nothing but sitting on my ass editing pictures. Woot woot!
And then he says, "I'm thinking about getting a lasagna to take to the beach this weekend."
Forget the fact that I'm Italian and make killer lasagna and that any lasagna you get frozen from a store is just crap. I just looked at him.
"...............Ummmm....okay....."
"What? No good?"
"Well, I probably won't eat it."
"Why?"
"It's got meat in it."
"Oh, right. The meat thing. Well, why don't you just make a turkey one then."
"............................... Meat."
"Fine. Let's just not go then. I mean, what am I supposed to eat if you're not eating meat? You're the one who cooks everything."
And that's why I'm the queen. But, I'm a nice queen who doesn't impose her own eating lifestyle on others.
"Just because I'm not eating meat, doesn't mean you can't. Eat what you want."
"I want pot roast."
"I'm not making that."
And while he did survive zuchinni lasagna at the beach, he also made Buffalo wings. Then came home and made Carne Asada and burritos. He's down 7 pounds.
I had a salad and some vegi pizza and gained one and a half pounds.
Shut up. You and your stupid fast metabolism and your stupid rooster.
Where's the chocolate?
That doesn't have meat in it, right?
Good. 'Cause I'd have to punch someone in the junk if it did.
Stupid rooster.
Love,
Lisa
I adore you. This was fantastic.
ReplyDeleteLove,
Miss Suganthi