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The Chicken Bone Story

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Its that time of year - Halloween - and this story fits perfect with the upcoming gruesome holiday...


 Yesterday evening i was cooking dinner - yes this happens occasionally - as my wife was at work and i had the kids.  I was making a stuffed chicken breast with a spicy kale and corn concoction.  It was actually quite good but i did slightly overcook it due to my lack of skills using an iron skillet. Boo.  Anyways, as i was stuffing it, my daughter asked me the following question:


 "Daddy, is there bones in that?"

 in which i replied

 "Nope.  No bones"

 in which she asked innocently

 "How do they put the bones in the chicken Daddy?"

 When your child asks questions like this you got like 3 seconds to think of an answer that will satisfy her. Any longer, she gets more curious.  She will ponder and linger the question and then not believe anything you say. 

"Oh. Sweety its magic!"

 was my lame excuse

[Backstory -- lately i have been doing magic tricks around the house including card guessing and showcasing my phsychic abilities.  Shit, i even made a dollar bill disappear and reappear in an orange that i had my wife carefully cut through. If this shoulder surgery has done anything positive, it has turned me into Slingo the Magician - a name i so cleverly named myself due to me being in a sling making for awkward presentations.]

And so magic is the first thing that came to my mind.  She simply said "oh" and that was that. 

 For now, she has believed that magic is responsible for putting bones in the chicken.  Another thing i found interesting with her question was she asked if "they" put bones in the chicken.  This made me think, who the fuck is "They".  Like the CIA, Secret Service, Dora and Friends, fucking My Little Pony or Daniel Tiger and his peeps?!



The fact that my daughter thinks that other foreign agencies put bones in chickens makes me realize just how soooo innocent this poor child is.  If i had told her that the chicken that you are eating was in a coupe with about 300 other Chickens, all tied up and barely able to move, eating each others poop and bi-product meals, only to be slaughtered, sliced, prepared and wrapped convienently to be purchased at Stop and Shop, dying for our sins, she would never eat again and be the youngest Vegan on the planet; let alone nightmares to suffice nightly.  Oh and by the way Sweety.. those eggs that you are eating, those are the aborted eggs that those dead chickens provided for us prior to sacrificing his short life for us.   Ok - who wants breakfast???

That certainly would not have gone well.  For now, i will let my daughter to continue to think that some mysterious people are putting bones in our chickens.  

Can't wait till she starts to really question where babies come from!  I need a beer. Or better yet, a chicken sandwich!  




 

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