Anyone for Soup?

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m not really crazy…I swear. Just because little purple bunnies tell me when to eat dinner and go to school, doesn’t mean I have a problem…I don’t really know what you’re about to read..I just know it was fun to write 😉 

Anyone for Supper?

By: Julia

I’ve always liked chicken. The way it sits in your mouth, not too heavy, but still firm and compact. It’s chewy yet yielding texture is thrilling. Just the thought of it makes my mouth water enough to fill up a small swimming pool. Not a big one, but one of those little ones that babies play in.

I love everything about chicken. It’s so wonderfully versatile. You can order chicken 800 different ways: fried, seasoned, a leg, a wing, in a salad, or even grilled lightly on a skewer, rotisserie style. Nothing is better. I love the smell. The way it envelops you on a cold day, and takes you into its big chickeny wings, while whispering the words “eat me..” softly into your ear. I love the word ‘chicken’. Its simplistic two syllable design is classic, yet the complexity of it’s all too nonchalant tone is both tasty and memorable. It even sounds good in French. “Poulet” is both inspiring and exotic.

When I was in middle school, and the other kids called me a chicken because I was scared to swing on the high bars in the playground, I smiled. When they called me a chicken because I wouldn’t let them copy off my grammar tests for fear of getting caught and thrown in grammar prison, I grinned. When they called me a chicken because I refused to stick my head in the toilet and flush, just to see what happened, I yelled out “Yes!” at the top of my lungs, and then went off to eat a delicious mayonnaisy chicken sandwich at lunch. When I picture it, I can still taste its creamy deliciousness to this day. It was like poetry. 

When someone asks me who the perfect man would be, I usually say a big chicken. Think about it. He comes in millions of different ways, exactly how you order him. He’s firm on the outside, with a softer, more emotional center just beneath the skin. He can walk around with his head cut off, which is a huge crowd pleaser at parties. He’s gorgeous. Picture a big, juicy chicken placed nicely in the center of a classy silver platter. Mashed potatoes accent the outside, bringing out the tanned colour of his skin. Green beans, placed artistically in a flower pattern show his healthy attitude and bright personality. Then, finally, a small pool of gravy, transcends his reflective nature. Now, I ask you, what could be more beautiful? 

If I could marry a big chicken, I think I would. I mean, if you dressed him up in a black vest and hat, and called him Dave, it would be hard to tell he was a chicken, and not a man. My mother would never have to know. Plus, if we ever got hungry, we could always eat our children. I wonder if they’d have feathers……

Sometimes, when I’m in a restaurant, and someone else is eating chicken, and I’m still waiting for mine, I can go a bit haywire. As I watch them bite into chicken’s meaty and succulent center, I like to picture different ways I could decapitate them, or if I’m in a good mood, simply knock them out, leaving their chicken for me to engulf in two big bites. That’s how I ended up in prison. 

It was a sunny after noon as I sat in Fred’s Famous Deli. As soon as they saw me coming they knew what I wanted. I was there for my daily 3:34pm chicken fix. I sat and watched the waiters scurry into the back one by one at my arrival, hastily preparing my meal. So I sat. After a minute of sitting, and planning my trip to the chicken farm that afternoon, to visit a few of my closest friends; Pecker, Webbed Foot, and Three Eyes, I began to get a little antsy. It was 3:36pm and I needed some chicken. My nose began to twitch. I knew that smell, it was some sort of sixth sense. There was chicken in the area. I got up and crawled discreetly along the floor of the deli. Scooting under tables, and narrowly missing people’s feet, I followed the entrancing scent. Then I saw it. A woman at table 36, by the window, eating a chicken, grilled rotisserie style (my favorite kind). I watched from behind a potted plant as she cut the beautiful bird into small mouthfuls, and chewed them thoughtfully, in her bright pink lipstick coloured mouth. The thing that bothers me most in the world is when people take the time to cut their chicken up into small mouthfuls. Since when do you eat chicken with a knife and fork? It is meant to be picked up in your hands, and bitten into at full force, causing juice to drizzle down you chin and form a puddle in your lap. This woman, so gracefully munching, did not deserve her chicken. I shook my head in complete and utter disgust. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t doing him justice. I watched as the chicken, seated so gracefully on her plate, looked at me from beneath her mashed potatoes and cried softly “Help me!”

I checked to see if the woman had heard. She was so caught up in her own world she hadn’t even noticed. However, her obscene self-centeredness was actually a stroke of luck for me. As I looked at the tragically pleading chicken, I knew I had to take action fast. So, I did what any right-minded chicken lover would do. I screamed “Satan Worshipper!” at the top of my lungs, picked up the potted plant I had been hiding behind, and hit her squarely over the head with it. As she fell to the ground, I relished in my victory by eating her leftover bird in two big bites. With grease dripping from my chops I looked around the restaurant. People were screaming and running around. Some were crowding around the fallen woman. I didn’t have time to wonder what all that was about. I had to make it all the way back to my table (table 4) before my chicken arrived and felt neglected. There’s nothing more saddening then a neglected chicken. As I sprinted across the restaurant I noticed sirens in the background. Suddenly I felt someone pulling me back. Then everything went black.

When I woke up I was here. Locked in this cell. We don’t get chicken here, only bread and some mushy green substance on special occasions. Sometimes we get mystery meat. But it’s never chicken. Despite its meddled and disfigured appearance, I would know if there was a smidge of chicken involved. I’d be able to tell.

I think I’m going to be here for a while. The judge at my trial wasn’t very impressed when in reply to the question of why I knocked the woman out, I said “For the food.” When I went into a lengthy description of the best way to grill a chicken. People seemed uninterested and disturbed, but in the back of the room I could hear a woman typing it up, so I knew someone was listening. And if I can reach just one person, then it’s all worth it.

As I sit here, starring out the metal barred window, I see hope for a greater tomorrow. Where everyone gets together and smiles and celebrates and dances. And we all have a big barbeque.