Sometimes I look at raw chicken and I think: You look weird. You look a bit too complex. You look like you should have your feathers on. You look cold & miserable. Clinically depressed even. I’m sorry, but I just can’t handle you (physically or mentally)…
After 12 months of living & working in Vietnam, you would think I would be good a handling birds. It was a daily occurrence for the girls from the house opposite mine to be out on the footpath, squatting down with their machetes chopping their bird of choice – preparing it for any number of dishes for the day.
Bird for breaky. Bird for lunch. Bird for dinner.
But over-exposure in this way didn’t help how chicken I was of chicken. Especially because at the time, the non-profit I was working for was running a Bird Flu prevention program. There was just too much bird in my day, every day – and it made me icky.