Saturday, September 25, 2010

The Butcher's Daughter

I am determined to roast a chicken and bake bread this weekend. As we were walking home from brunch, we popped into St. Andrew's Poultry in Kensington Market (lovely and clean, smells like freshly bleached laundry). I spotted free range, hormone-free chickens, two for $18. Wonderful!

And then I see that they still have their feet attached. And I need to lie down.

My husband says "is that what you want?" and I say "let's just get those other ones," and he says "why?" He takes a look and says "oh." Then, brave soul he is, he says to the butcher, "can you cut off their feet for her? Once she didn't eat chicken for a whole year because she saw one with feet in Chinatown." The butcher says "sure, I'll ask Carlos* to do you want their heads?"

Oh for the love of Oprah! No, I don't want their heads! By now, I am near the front of the store, pretending to look at beans. Jason says "I don't think she wants their heads," and Carlos says "ok, no feet, no heads." Perfect. I try to imagine the chickens having happy lives in some sunny barnyard, I mean at least I'm buying chickens who lived like chickens, right? And I go to the cash register.

The other butcher takes our decapitated chickens to the front, and as I'm getting ready to pay, Carlos trots up to the front with a bag and says "here's your heads and feet." I feel myself go pale.

Jason looks at me and says, "it's an animal. So much for The Butcher's Daughter."

I know, I know. I was a vegetarian for several years, primarily to piss off my father ("do you want to put your dad out of a job?"). It was awesome. Most planet-friendly teenage rebellion ever.

*His name is not Carlos, I didn't catch his name. But he looked like a Carlos.

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