I don't feel much guilt about eating chickens. They're nasty animals with sharp feet and hard beaks -- and dirty besides. Okay, a pretty black and white hen nestled in my arms once, but she was the only nice one out of the whole species.
You might be able to tell that I have plenty of chicken stories, but who really wants to contemplate my terror of flying talons, dusty bedding, and egg thefts? Or plucking singed or boiled feathers either? Or seeing my paternal grandmother demonstrating multiple methods of killing the unfortunates? I'm still living the trauma.
Maybe it's better to think about the chicken soup I made yesterday? Making soup is a contemplative activity for me. Chop, chop, chop, simmer, chop, simmer... It takes an afternoon, and I had stuff I wanted to think about. Actually, chicken soup takes 2 days, because I boil the bones the night before. I deny any responsibility for anyone getting a bone in their bowl. Just goes to show it's real.
All modesty aside, I make the best chicken soup -- with the exception of Mary Lou's Italian wedding soup, but I'm not going to compete with her specialty. My soup is more traditional Ohio than Italian. She gave me some of hers at Christmas, and I'm going to give her some of mine when I see her later today. It's a good trade.
The chicken art is a reject if you can believe it. I had good plans for it too, but nooooooo. My nemesis found black and white clip art which was used instead. Such is the life of an artist! Maybe my fears of chickens came out in the art?