23 December 2021:
Even if it’s naked, you can tell a chicken from a duck, even under all their feathers, they’re all and entirely chicken. All those relevant bones, recognisable remains, every scrap, always recognisable as a chicken, not a duck.
Poor deliveryman. Embarrassed by it all. Said there hasn’t been a duck in the shop since early December because there’s a shortage of turkeys. People dumbed-down to duck. All down to avian flu in November. Caused panic buying. No Christmas turkeys. No ducks. We’re having a Christmas chicken – that’s what the delivery guy brought us. A chicken.
My gran kept chickens. They wobbled around in a stupor mostly. As if they walked out of a dark place without wings, and without friends. She said there was a chicken hierarchy. Like which one makes the best broth. Whose feet will end up in gravy. Gran used to say the Lord’s Prayer 3 times – that made the perfect soft cooked egg, she said.
No Christmas ducks. No turkeys. Nevertheless … Christmas chickens …. Yum!
Image A Christmas Hedgehog is ca. 14th century, Musée de Cluny, Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday. ©Misky 2021 Shared with #apoemaday on Twitter
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