Screamin' Chicken

I could be quite happily carnivorous. Don't get me wrong, I love my vegies, but I've obviously got some genes throwing back to my caveman ancestors. Give me meat!

And I feel entitled to eat meat because I've seen firsthand what it takes for us to have meat. I've seen chickens running about headless; sheep slaughtered; I've watched the men scrub down a pork carcase with boiling water to get the bristles off; and if you haven't ever seen a 'bush kill' of a steer, you're missing out - it's amazing the way they skin the beast and lay the hide flat to get a 'clean' working space in the dusty yards.

I don't think I'd be too keen to be the one doing any of the shooting or plucking, and I wouldn't have the physical strength for the butchering of a beast three times my size, but I get what's involved.

Okay, so I do have a soft spot for animals I've got to know. I don't think I could actually slaughter some critter that was looking at me with soft, dark eyes. I guess it would depend how hungry I was, and if there was anyone else to do it for me.

It's their faces. Eyes looking at you. The expression on their little faces. That's why I was a trifle put off when I went to carve tonight's roast chicken:

Yep, this chicken obviously died while being roasted alive.

Chance that I didn't eat him afterall?

... Approximately None (but my Beloved believes I'm insane because I insisted on photographing our dinner!)

By the way, it was very tender and yummy.