Is that the chicken is still in my fridge, untouched after Dennis packed it in tin foil for me to drive home, a week and a half ago.
“Oh gosh,” I said to Paige tonight. “Uh, how long does chicken stay good in the fridge, anyway?”
“A couple days?” she responded.
Throwing this chicken away is maybe the most morally abhorrent thing I will do. The idea of seeing its body: this creature I nurtured for a day, apologized to over and over in my head, whose warm feathers I felt and whose insides I washed from my hands — this, in the trash? With coffee grounds, cheese wrappers, crumpled chip bags? I can’t even think of it. It’s ridiculously terrible. World, I am so sorry.
I’d thought once I killed an animal, eating it would be easy — the reward, a final intimacy, even, a thanksgiving. I felt we had done everything respectfully and as kindly as we could. Afterwards we soaked them in brine and rubbed them with spices. But then — I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t deal with any of the aftermath. Every day, I put off eating that chicken.
In the end, it had nothing to do with ethics.
World, I am so sorry.
Image by Dennis.