Chicken Stories

Copyright 2000 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com

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Okay, I want to talk turkey about chickens.  (No, this isn't a recipe column; when I cook chicken, the only ingredient is "chicken."  I don't add anything except when I open the hood of the grill and fire flashes up, at which time I lightly dust the poultry with eyebrow ashes.  When the meal is thoroughly carbonized, I send out for pizza.  There, that's Bruce Cameron's recipe for chicken.)

What's a chicken weigh, do you think?  Usually when I see them they are naked and missing a couple of parts, and they seem to average about five pounds.  Out in the wild, though, they've got ears, toenails, knees -- let's be generous and call it eight pounds.  Roosters weigh more, maybe, because of their, well, you know.

I bring this up because the other day I was preparing to grill some boneless chicken breasts when I suddenly realized they -- the breasts -- were bigger than my own pectorals.  (Though certainly no more useful; I mean, you don't see many chickens nursing their young.)  Anyway, my point is this:  A bird consisting mostly of feathers and squawk is better developed than I am!

This is absolutely outrageous.  I am a grown man.  I work out on a regular basis -- well, I'm going to start as soon as I get my schedule straightened out, anyway -- and I'm out-muscled by a bird whose very name is synonymous with cowardice.  As a matter of fact, I once beat the tar out of John Nunnick in 8th grade for calling me a chicken.  Well okay, it was more of a draw.  Okay, we never actually fought.  In fact, I ran away.  But hey, John Nunnick was a big kid.  He had muscles like a chicken!

Now, it is true that I don't know anything about the chicken whose breasts I was fondling.  Maybe it was one of those "free range" chickens.  Those guys have to be in pretty good shape out there on the range, with all those predators.  (Another word for "free range chicken" is "prey.")  In fact, our local health food market has "free range, vegetarian chickens."  Aha! Maybe I got one of the meat eaters!  Maybe, instead of a free ranger, I got one from poultry prison who spent all of his time pumping iron out in the yard.

Also, even more insulting:  Chickens are stupid.  They been spotted running
around without their heads, for gosh sakes -- the worst thing I'VE ever
done is give a sales presentation with my fly unzipped.  And hey, I'd like
to see a chicken program a computer.  Well, okay, I can't actually do that
either, but the point is, there's a reason why I'm standing in front of
the grill when they're lying on it:  I'm from the superior species.  At
least, that's the way it was before I ran into these bulked-up Arnold
Schwartzenchickens!

Maybe I'd feel better about the whole thing if chickens flew south for the winter, but I've never heard of them doing that.  Actually, I think they take the bus -- one time on the highway I passed a big truck hauling a bunch of them, anyway, and frankly they looked like they wished they'd spent a little extra money and gone first class.  Regardless, what I'm trying to say here is that if the sky darkened with flocks of chickens every fall, there would be a reason for their chests to be bigger than mine.  It takes a lot of flap to get to Florida from here.  But most of the chickens I've seen are just out walking around in the grass, looking pretty clueless about what they are supposed to do next.  What kind of exercise program is that? 

Now, I don't want to get a lot of hate mail from the People for the Ethical Treatment of Birds That Cluck.  I like chickens and believe that they and mankind can peacefully coexist under most circumstances that don't involve the words "Kentucky Fried." I'm just saying that the day a man realizes he
is less manly than a creature without lips is a sad day, indeed.

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The Cameron Column # 109

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