I Put My Hand In a Chicken's Butt!

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.