Sympathy for the chicken
So this is how chickens feel on Christmas Eve.
And turkeys on Thanksgiving.
Except that instead of 6 fussy old women doing the decorations, the chicken has the attention of only one. Lucky duck.
Chicken, I mean.
And it’s already dead.
So there is none of the humiliation, helplessness and anger that it might have felt had it still been breathing. No self respecting, living chicken could endure the hours of stuffing, garnishing, and basting. That’s why they kill it. I wonder why they don’t kill me.
But I’m not a chicken. I’m their daughter.
And the people sitting by the table, they don’t want to eat me. Or so they say.
You would think of course, that the hours they take preparing the meal, it isn’t really worth it in the end. A knife flicks twice, and it’s all undone. The hours of making everything “just right”.
“Tie the legs together, like this…”
“alright, now lets get to the stuffing…:
“Sprinkle salt and pepper…then baste the chicken with oil, then rub it with sage, rosemary and thyme…”
“The temperature at which you bake the chicken should be…”
Perfect. Just perfect.
Hair, makeup, clothes, shoes, expression.
No rebellion, no anger. No anything.
Just like a dead chicken.