When I was a kid my mom fixed the chicken from feathers to fried. I guess we could have purchased a "dressed" hen at the grocery store, but we didn't.
We'd go as a family to buy the hen from a local farmer; he'd put the chosen chicken in a gunny sack (burlap bag) and dad would put it on the floor in the back seat by our feet where we kids would make friends with the chicken by stroking the beak she'd poke out the sack, even naming her.
Once home, we'd beg dad not to kill this one, please let us keep it for a pet.
He'd ignore our pleas and he'd sharpen his little ax...or a very sharp butcher knife. We knew what was next and didn't want to miss it. He'd remove the hen from the bag and lay its head across a little stump of wood, holding it in place with his foot.
He was so fast and the knife or ax so sharp that before we knew it, the head was lying on the ground and the rest of the body running all over the yard--like a chicken with its head cut off.
We nearly fell over ourselves with gales of laughter...
We never regretted eating the wonderful fried chicken mom made out of it along with mashed potatoes and gravy, corn on the cob, fresh green beans...and a cherry pie. mmmmmm
(If you want, I can go into the process of "feathers to fried" in another post...)
Cup missionary Christy triggered this post by her last one. Check it out.
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