Headless Chicken

I often put myself in a box of things that I am capable of doing. I am not one to push boundaries, bend rules, and step outside of my comfort zone. I hate failing, and if I see that failure might just be on the horizon, I run.

Decapitating and gutting a chicken is something that even yesterday I would have declared myself incapable of doing. Alas, I have done it.

Before Nagyi, the fantastic cook in our house, broke her wrist, Viktor and my mom went to the market to buy a chicken. They decided on a nice juicy one... head intact. Feet and claws attached. "Edible" guts inside. However, Nagyi broke her wrist, and is now incapable of using a knife to cut anything, let alone the head of a chicken off its neck.

The bird sat in the freezer for over a week, when we finally decided that it should probably be cooked. I took it out of the freezer, though little did I know that the next morning I would be the one chopping, clipping, and gutting it. When I lifted its body from the freezer, I was already grossed out. I was quite content to believe that my mom or someone less squeamish than I would be the one to deal with such a task. I set it on a platter to thaw.

This morning after breakfast, and still in my pajamas, the bloody wrestling match commenced. My mom volunteered to take pictures. (Ah, so many times have I volunteered to be the photographer in similar situations...) Viktor volunteered to take a shower. And I was left with the one-handed Nagyi. And the bird.

After chopping off the feet, clipping the wings, slicing off the head, the neck, and yanking out the guts...

After lots of faces, one scream and scurry away from the cutting board, three hand-washings, and thirty pictures, the deed was done. The chicken was prepared. It was placed in the pan. It was broiled. It was eaten. It was tasty.

I have faced another fear. I have challenged my family nickname of "the pea princess" (from that good old fairy tale...) I have beaten the chicken!