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.
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.
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
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.
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?
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.
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
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.
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.