Eating the Chicken

and other struggles (and wins) with my own food hypocrisy

When someone is not feeling their best I usually make chicken soup. Isn’t it the oldest folk remedy of all? Chicken soup heals everything. I usually try to make it the healthy way, from a whole chicken, because the story is that the trace minerals from the bones and cartilage are where the real benefits lie. Personally, I like chicken soup the way my former mother-in-law taught me to make it: chicken breasts off the bones, simmered for a little while in water with a carrot, celery, onion and bay leaves, then the weak broth is strained, the meat is removed and shredded, and you start fresh with the watery broth, the shredded breast meat, a package of Knorr chicken noodle soup mix, a can of creamed corn, a chopped carrot and stalk of celery. I can almost eat it if I pick all the chicken out first. It tastes good, and salty. Like chicken soup out of a package of powdered chemicals should taste.

I’ve had an aversion to meat on the bone for my whole life. I was a pseudo-vegetarian (definition: no meat except for the occasional piece of bacon or hot dog or hunk of fried bologna, or friend chicken fingers. All the healthy stuff, right?), for most of my life because of a combination of gag reflex when meat entered my mouth and a tender love for animals of every kind. If it doesn’t resemble the animal, I can eat meat like a champion, world-class hypocrite. If I had to kill the animal in order to eat it? No way José. Hot dogs, bologna, bacon? Serve them up. As long as the bacon is burnt to a blackened strip that could stand up on its own. No flaccid bacon will enter my mouth, ever. A chicken breast on the bone, a t-bone steak, short ribs? Gag me with a rubber, well...chicken. And God forbid a piece of gristle or a stringy tendon or vein meets my eye; it would never meet my tongue.

So back to making chicken soup the old fashioned way. Nothing but chicken, carrots, celery, leeks, water, bay leaves, fresh parsley and a couple of peppercorns. I barely use salt and use barley instead of noodles for added nourishment. This is medicinal soup, not a gourmet potage. It smells good enough while simmering all day; and I almost look forward to it. Until the time comes to strain the stock from all the sinister bits and cut the carcass (err, chicken) up to put it back into the pot. The old familiar gag reflex surfaces, once again, without fail. With outstretched arms, I pick at the breast meat until there isn’t a trace of anything icky. See a vein? That piece ain’t making it back in. Once the deed is done with the precision of a surgeon removing every last trace of a malignancy, I taste the broth and can barely swallow it. I feel so queasy thinking of the whole process that to me I’d rather have chicken soup out of a box. What is wrong with me?

Miracles do happen, so now and then I yank up my trousers and decide to eat it anyway. Like a grown up. I am usually okay, and I’m certain it’s nourishing and good for anyone not feeling their best, including me. The thing is…it does not make me feel good. And why can’t I honour that in myself? I’ve had an aversion to meat since birth. My mom will attest to me crying and not wanting to eat when she made something like Swiss steak, which everyone else found scrumptious. I just don’t like meat unless it is so altered that it bears no resemblance to an animal. Except bacon, almost burnt and crisp. Then it looks nothing like a pig. Bacon is a universal food. Bacon is unavoidable. Is my hypocrisy thicker than a London fog, yet?

About two decades ago (this is a long and reoccurring story in my life, folks), I traveled with a friend to Ohio, to visit her family. They are Greek, first generation immigrants, and boy do they love to eat and drink. I can safely say we never left the kitchen table for more than an hour, and that was only to attend the Greek Festival, where we were pleasured with more food and drink. I mean, bring on the flamed halloumi over and over again. One afternoon, as we sat captive at the kitchen table, the man of the house (and I don’t use that term loosely) brought out a tray of roasted chickens. He cut it up into pieces right in front of us, pulling leg from side of breast, tendons and veins slipping out of skin and meat, dangling like the wormy things they are, blood and juices dripping down his hands. He put a leg and thigh on a plate and set it down in front of me. I admit that it smelled good, but there was no way in Hades I was going to eat it. I sat meekly, served myself from the trough of roasted potatoes with rosemary, along with a little bit of tomatoes, cukes, Kalamata olives and briny feta cheese.

My friend, who was quite familiar with my ways, nudged my side with her elbow, knowing that I was probably ready to pass out at the thought of eating chicken off a bone. When everyone was seated, I ate my veggies, oohing and ahhing over how delicious they were—and they truly were. I figured I could slip my chicken onto my friend’s plate, and knew that she was quietly in cahoots. As I began the stealthy transfer there was a fist smashed down on the table.

“You no like my chicken?”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sure it’s delicious. I’m so sorry, I’ve just never been able to eat chicken.”

Now, even louder:

“YOU NO LIKE MY CHICKEN?”

And then, sotto voce from my friend: “Eat the chicken.” So I did. And I survived. And it did taste good, in between spasms when my tongue was caught somewhere back in my throat as I retched it down. To be honest, it wasn’t awful...and yet, it was. I can tell you this, it did give me the moxie to finally try a Buffalo wing a few months later. And I now like chicken wings—if they are cooked to my own standard of perfection. If, IF, I keep my eyes closed and my brain focused on the thick coating of hot sauce and butter. IF they are completely crispy and do not have a smidge of mushy skin anywhere. IF the skin is crisp and not slimy and wet. IF I’m imbibing alcohol and it’s dark in the room. To live in Buffalo and not try a chicken wing until you are over forty years old is like calling the pope a Pagan. Blasphemy.

I’ve always been respectful of eating what I’m served if someone else takes the time to cook it for me, but where can I draw the line? Some people have true allergies and can’t eat things like eggs, nuts, dairy without risking death. Maybe I can use that for an excuse. What would the Greek man have said if I responded:

“I’m so sorry. I’m allergic to chicken. If I eat it I will turn blue, after vomiting all over your fine potatoes, and then you will spend the afternoon in the emergency room, far far away from your kitchen table and your ouzo, as they work to resuscitate me.”

The thing is, I survived. I ate the chicken. And I was proud of myself. My friend immortalised my act of courage, in the face of her cousin’s pig-headed Mediterranean machismo, for years. But would I willingly cower and submit under such pressure if it I was ever in the same position again? At sixty years of age, I really hope that I would not.

But here is my biggest dilemma. I have the type of metabolism and body chemistry that has a really difficult time with carbohydrates, and for most my life, because of my aversion to meat, I have made carbohydrates my main source of calories. My body and my health have suffered from that. This year I decided to leave the carbohydrate laden food behind. No more pasta, potatoes, breads, absolutely no sugar, in any form—and wow has my body responded well. The meat thing, however, remains a constant struggle. Daily. I am trying to so hard to get past my aversions. I still only eat chicken that I have trimmed to be perfect and sterile in my eyes. I can’t eat meat on a bone, can’t eat eggs if they are at ALL runny, can’t eat anything I make if I get at ALL grossed out during the preparation process. And yet, I’m finding my way. I’m also eating more vegetarian proteins and fats like avocados, hemp seeds, tempeh, nuts and seeds. It’s working. Boy do I miss pasta. I survived on pasta some times. My last meal WILL BE (I hope) macaroni and cheese. But I don’t miss the way my body and my mind felt while riding the insulin-load waves after I consumer those tender little noodles. I do not miss that roller coaster at all.

What I have truly started to learn is to honour my own self. My own body. My own heart. If my heart hurts thinking about eating something, why would I eat it? If my body reacts poorly to eating something, why would I eat it? Why has it taken me sixty years to learn to honour myself? I don’t know. But I think I’ve finally arrived. And the next time I make chicken noodle soup for myself? It’s going to be without any chicken and noodles at all.