(Note: Vegetarians and Vegans, beware. This post is full of dead chicken.)
How Alex and I spent our Saturday Night:
Meet George. He is our chicken. He is sassy and speaks with a French accent. He used to live in Mankato at Prairie Pride Farm where he spent his days in clover pastures, eating clover, alfalfa, oats, grasses, non-GMO corn, and bugs and being a chicken. Now, he is in my fridge, soon to become roasted, Zuni Cafe style.
We removed his organs. We (well, Alex) chopped off his neck. Then we gave him a bath and patted him very, very dry.
Then we stuck our fingers between his skin and breasts and gave him herbal implants of sage, marjoram, thyme, and rosemary.
We did the same to his thighs.
Then we rubbed him down with salt. Lots of salt. And some pepper. We even put some inside his cavity. Just a little. Not too much.
And now he sits in the fridge for two whole days before he is dinner.