My darling TF recommended a farmer of chickens to me, a farmer who raises his birds ethically, treats them well, feeds them properly and charges a fair price for them. You go once a month or so and pick them up from his truck at a local shopping centre. It's enough to make you giddy, what with all the farm love going on. Locavores: REJOICE!
But I can't eat them.
They showed up last night courtesy of TF's DH, in their plastic bags. Their plastic bags of blood.
Their freshly killed, freshly plucked little bodies in their plastic bags of blood.
I contacted a farmer and he killed some chickens for me.
We cooked one--parts of one--this evening for dinner and I feel biblically guilty. Luke and Kid chowed down and declared it all delicious. I pushed a little piece of breast hither and thither on my plate and thought about responsibility. I thought about George Orwell, "Babe," and that episode of WKRP in Cincinnati where Les Nessman witnesses live turkeys bombing out of a helicopter onto an unsuspecting shopping mall. ("It should have worked.")
I think I might now be a Vegetarian For Real.
I know. I know.
The turkeys are mounting a counter-attack.