New Year’s Eve

Sure I could have found a babysitter and gone out and partied the night away.  But then I wouldn’t have gotten to scare Hope with a headless chicken…

It was hysterical.  I  had a whole (well, you know) chicken.  I didn’t have a clue what to do with it.  I IMed a friend, and she gave me directions, brought me one of those can-roasting-racks–you know, put half a can of soda in the middle and get a yummy moist bird?  And more directions.

Fortunately she mentioned I needed to remove what was already inside.  I might have remembered that on my own.  But considering I’ve only dealt with Whole Bird once before, (turkey, thanksgiving, those are EASY to find directions for…) I probably wouldn’t have.

It was the squeals of “Ick!” that attracted Hope.  Yes, I did grow up on a farm, and yes, we raised and ate chickens.  I used to help pluck.  I’ve seen a headless bird chase my little brother (by coincidence?) long enough to have inflicted permanent trauma.  (laughed my butt off, too.  Hey, I was like, nine.)

So here I am, with neck, gizzard, liver and heart in my hand.  Hope thought that was just fascinating–as long as I was the one holding it.  I dealt with those, rinsed the bird inside and out just because I thought I should, and stuck that darn thing on the can.

Whattaya know, it fit.  And it looked so darn silly there on that can, I couldn’t resist.  It did a little dance for Hope.  Which, as she put it, “seriously freaked” her out.

Ahh yes, a family tradition.  Inflicting trauma with headless birds.

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