I am a self-proclaimed meat-phobe. I only eat boneless chicken breast and turkey breast (no other meats including fish). I don't even eat things with meat stock or meat flavoring of any kind (other than chicken). And, if I can't thoroughly investigate the meat, I won't even consider eating it (i.e., chicken hidden in a wrap and smothered in sauce does not appeal to me unless I--or my mother who is used to my psychoses--have cooked it.) For the first year or so of my marriage, I couldn't eat the chicken breast I had cooked because I had handled it raw. If I drive behind a chicken truck and get attacked by flying feathers or bite into a piece of grizzle, I may not be able to deal with eating chicken for several days. Okay, I think I have given you enough information to understand my chicken dilemma...and probably refer me to a psychiatrist. Please don't comment with any diagnoses or try to sway my mind in any way. I do not pretend it makes any sense.
Enough of the background....on to my chicken dilemma. Many recipes call for chicken broth, but store-bought broth has onions and carrots, which are two things Emma can't have. I decided to figure out how to make my own broth and was dismayed to learn that it included cooking a whole chicken (and dealing with the subsequent bones, veins, and other icky parts). So, I looked into making a vegetable broth. Of course, the base is onions, so that was likewise out. When I searched for cream of chicken or celery recipes, I found that a prominent ingredient was....yep, you guessed it--chicken broth. I finally came to the realization that if I was going to make certain recipes, I was stuck dealing with a whole bird!
The easiest part was figuring out what spices/seasonings to use--I just called my Momma and asked her. She pointed me to a recipe, and after removing the items Emma can't have I ended up using 2 tsp. salt, 3/4 tsp red pepper, 1/2 tsp. thyme, 1/2 tsp. black pepper, and 1 tsp. paprika. The next step wasn't so easy, so I called Emma into the kitchen for moral support. I told her she didn't have to do anything but stand there and talk to me as I rubbed the outside--and inside--of this chicken. I touched the bird long enough to put it into a bowl and then had an epiphany--wrapping my hand in plastic wrap would be like wearing a glove. Emma had a much better idea. (Side note: Emma likes collecting different colored gloves from doctor's offices, so she tends to take a pair from every new physician we visit.) She ran to her room and grabbed a pair of rubber gloves of which she had duplicates. Donned with purple gloves, I was ready to feel this bird up!
I rubbed his tummy, his back, and even lifted his wing as I pretended to apply deodorant. (I find having a sense of humor makes most things more bearable.) I talked to my bird pal and was fairly comfortable until I had to probe inside its neck hole. I was not too sure if I was supposed to pull his neck out, so I left it. Hearing the popping sound of bones and/or cartilage was the exact opposite of what I was wanting from this experience. Around the time I was giving him a rectal exam, Emma sweetly said, "I love you, Mom." Amidst the disgust I was feeling at pulling something long and weird out of its butt, I asked her why she was telling me this right now. Her response? "Because I know you are doing this for me."
We had chicken for dinner (the kids and I ate the breast while my husband actually got dark meat for a change). I bonded with my daughter over a bird's behind. But, most importantly, Emma has the topic for her future college essay: My mom is my hero because she plays with chicken butt.