Domestic Angel (Part II)

For Matt and I's six month anniversary celebration I decided to make a whole chicken roast.   I picked this recipe, because the thought of serving a whole chicken seemed very Norman Rockwell-y and I felt smug and self-satisfied.  Betty Draper would serve a whole chicken, I reasoned.  

As soon as I got home, I  went to the refrigerator, released "Gertrude" (as I named the chicken--growing up we always named the Turkeys at Thanksgiving, so I decide this chicken needed a name before she was sacraficed to a made-up anniversary celebration) from her plastic packaging, ripped out her insides, and began anally raping her dead carcass with whole lemons and herbs.  The whole thing was feeling a bit more "Silence of the Lambs" than Norman Rockwell, and I hadn't bargained for this level of intimacy with my meal just to create an intimate meal.   Also, shoving things inside a chicken carcass isn't as neat and simple as it's portrayed on the cooking show.   Gertrude's ribs couldn't accomedate the two full lemons the recipe called for, so it took some real maneuvering up inside her business (literally) to get it to stay.   "How the hell did women do this in pearls,"  I wondered aloud.   I felt more like I needed an execution hood.

Gertie, after her guilt-inducing anal probe.

After I sucessfully got Gertie in the oven, I proceeded to the less barbaric aspects of the meal.   Asparagus chopping, potato peelings, chocolate strawberry making--the rest of the endeavor was very pleasant and not nearly as emotionally scarring.   When Gertie, came out, however, she no longer looked like a dead mound of flesh, she looked like something that would be at home in Stepford, Connecticut.   I was so smug and proud of myself I was on the verge of even annoying me.   No one was around to marvel with me--so I looked down at my cat and said, "Gracie, look what mommy made."  Gracie turned abruptly and, like she does, showed me her anus.   Seriously, between cat and chicken anus, I feel like I see more than a proctologist.  

Come on, just look at that!  Wouldn't you be smug, too?!

So, that's the gist of the evening.   Matt was impressed, but not as impressed as I was--with myself.   I even said, "Oh my God, mmmmmm" loudly, as I took my first bite, causing Matt to say, "It's annoying when you compliment your own cooking.  Let me do that."  To which I snapped back, "Well, I'm eating too, aren't I?"   Needless to say, Gertie left this world for a good cause.