Without Feathers

When I was in sixth grade I very clearly remember sitting at the dining room table cutting into a steak when it suddenly began to move. I sat and watched it slowly pulsating, as though it was breathing. It was very similar to the episode of the Simpsons when the lamb says, “Liiisssa. Dooooon’t eeeat meeee.” Pushing the plate away from me, I announced to my mother that I wasn’t eating meat anymore.

For the next five or six years I didn’t. Much. Occasionally I’d eat some chicken and I remember a very drunken 7-11 hot dog experience in high school, but for the most part I stuck to my proclamation, subsisting primarily on Cap’n Crunchberries, grilled cheese sandwiches and the #2 from McDonalds- please substitute the meat for lettuce and tomato.

My second year of college changed everything. After a year of the college meal plan and the ensuing 10 pound weight loss, I found that I was really, really hungry. My roomate Kate decided to take me out to breakfast. She bullied me into ordering the platter that came with pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage and an enormous ham steak. I ate almost everything on the plate and spent the next several hours in the bathroom. Deciding that my suffering shouldn’t be for naught, I continued to eat meat as often as possible. Ironically, Kate stopped eating meat shortly after that breakfast.

Now I eat meat. All kinds of it. I enjoy chicken, beef, sausage and the occasional veal cutlet. I love ribs and bacon. I’m not so fond of pork or ham and I can’t stand fish, but I am definitely a meat eater.

I’ve never understood people who will eat meat, but only if it’s unrecognizable as such. For example, I’ve had several friends who will eat bacon cheeseburgers and chicken cutlets with abandon, but won’t eat ribs or wings because of the bones. One friend told me, “I can’t eat anything on the bone because then I remember where it came from. A hamburger could be anything. A roast chicken is too… Chickeny.” Chickeny? When I go to the supermarket and see the sterilized packages of steak and boneless chicken breasts I don’t stick them in my cart blindly. I know that I’m eating a dirty nasty, clucking chicken or big-eyed Bessie the cow. When I eat ribs I know that they’re just that- an animal’s ribs. I’m not thrilled about it, and though I may someday, I have no interest in changing my eating habits at this point in my life.

With that said, I had the most bizarre experience the other night. Twice a week I’ll make a big hunk of meat, usually a roast chicken or meatloaf. My last trip to the supermarket, rather than buying a genetically modified, god knows what hormores you’re eating purdue roaster, I bought a kosher chicken. I let the chicken brine for 24 hours in the fridge. When I took it out of the stock pot, dried it and began to rub it with seasoning, I realized that the chicken still had feathers.

What a pain in the ass. In my sheltered life, it never occurred to me that I’d have to pluck a chicken’s feathers. It was incredibly difficult. I tried to pluck them with my fingers to no avail. I thought about pliers, but didn’t want to get raw chicken all over them. The only other thing I could think of was tweezers. It was a painstakingly slow process. I had to pluck one at a time and they were concentrated around the wings, which made them hard to get to. Raw chicken is really fucking slippery. So I gave up. The majority of the chicken was featherless, so I told Boyfiend not to freak out if he got a mouthfull of fuzz. Wondering what that was all about, I checked out the website and learned that it’s not unusual. I guess a couple of feathers aren’t going to kill you.

Even with the feathers, Kosher chicken is far superior to most of the frankenchickens they sell in the supermarket. I’ve also found that it’s tastier than the free range chickens they sell at Whole Foods. I just wish they could do something about the feathers.

In other bird news, Go Eagles!