Chicken Little

Unlike many of my friends, I am not particularly fond of shopping for shoes or clothes. Scott can spend hours in Best Buy and computer stores, staring and dreaming over boxes of assorted chips, cards and wires. My guilty shopping pleasure hits a little closer to home: I love the grocery store.

Specifically, I relish shopping for bargains in the grocery store. While I come nowhere near the savings achieved by the Extreme Coupon-ers on television, I can hold my own with the average mom. I am good with coupons; I excel in the reduced meat department.

Robby and I can spot the coveted  yellow "Special" sticker in the meat case from across the store. From overstocks to soon-to-be-expired, if it is cheap and we'll eat it eventually, I'll buy it. My freezer is stocked full for the much touted pandemic that, according to the Doomsday Preppers, is imminent.

Yesterday morning I popped into the grocery store after dropping Robby off at school. Wednesday mornings the butcher marks down the most products, and the early bird always catches the cheap worm! Ready with a cart and trying to act casual (although my adrenaline was already surging with the anticipation of scoring a deal) I turned the corner and saw my beacon.

"Special" stickers were lined up on a row of whole roaster chickens. I didn't recognize the brand, nor could I read the label because it was written in Spanish. Undeterred, and knowing that the language of the chicken wouldn't impact the flavor, the price of $3.50 each sealed the deal. Without thought, I nabbed every chicken that was on sale, leaving an empty space in the cooler and looks of confusion from the slower shoppers.

I came home and stashed all but one of my cheap chickens in the freezer. I took one upstairs and began to prep it for a day of slow cooking in the crock pot. I cut open the wrapper and rinsed the bird. I then went to pull out the neck and the icky bag of organs that is typically stuffed into the cavity.

I threw the neck in the sink, screamed like a six year old girl and ran to hide behind the refrigerator. Tiptoeing back, I peeked in the sink and my fears were confirmed. The head was still attached! Staring back at me was a cloudy bird eye, sad looking beak, and the remnants of what had been a face.

After ten minutes of pacing back and forth, I finally garnered the courage to grab the little face (with tongs) and throw it into a waiting trash bag. I hastily prepped the now headless bird, trying to get the image of him staring at me out of my mind,  and carried the little face to the trashcan.  With one bird beheaded and prepped, I was left with in a quandary.  What was I going to do the remaining Spanish chickens, all probably with their heads tucked into their chests, that were stashed in the freezer?

Knowing that I was not about to deal with another head and doubting that Scott would relish the task, I was left with only two options. I could throw out the chickens , or I could swallow my pride and ask for help. I retrieved all of the birds from my freezer and drove over to Mr. Bill.

He looked surprised when he opened the door and saw me standing with a bag full of chickens. When I explained the head dilemma he began to laugh--not a little chuckle but a full blown belly laugh. After teasing me for being a city girl and claiming that I ran to him like a chicken with my head cut off (pun intended), he directed me to put the chickens on the counter with the promise that he would take care of it.

A few hours later Mr. Bill returned with my cheap chickens, minus the face. I suspect that this incident will be the fodder for teasing and stories for years to come! Scott and Robby seemed to enjoy the dinner I prepared. Although I sat at the table with them, I ate a peanut butter sandwich. I just couldn't stomach eating something after it looked me in the eyes. I packed up the remaining bird, added a large helping of macaroni and cheese and delivered it to the doorstep of my hero: Mr. Bill, the chicken beheader.