On the morning after my 44th birthday (which, as of the first draft, was earlier today), I woke up a bit late, exhausted and sick from an infection. I was sick yesterday, too, but I felt better with some antibiotics and feel even better now. I typically plan for my own birthday, and I didn’t do everything I wanted because
- I didn’t feel well;
- it was Wednesday; and
- I had driving to do for the kids.
Anyway, I had some birthday plans in a few different directions but they fell through. Tonight, I’m finding some peace in making a comfort meal, brining chicken leg quarters in buttermilk, herbs, and oil. These leg quarters are the final 5 or so pounds from an order I placed late in January 2022 for a 40-pound case. The ten-pound case of boneless chicken breasts, as well as the similarly weighted pork-loin case, are long gone.
I dump the defrosted limbs into a bowl, pour buttermilk over them, and chop some rosemary with sage and thyme, adding it to the salmonella bog I have created. I consider how I acquired the 40-pound case of chicken leg quarters, the 10-pound case of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, and the pork loins. It’s the sort of rural economy you don’t ask questions about. We’re always buying eggs from a neighbor, trading vegetables with ne’er-do-wells and aristocrats alike. It’s a system based on the trust of tradition.
Sometime in January, I ordered the butchered meat from a Google form that was sent to my email address. I was to show up at the volunteer fire company in our town on the designated meat day and collect my order. Which I did, obligingly. I drove around to the back of the large metal-frame firehouse, at the edge of town. One of the men unloading the chicken from the box truck needed to figure out how to give me change for my cash. Wholesome. They even helped load my trunk.
But now, nearly 11 months later, as I pour kosher salt into this buttermilk bath, it occurs to me that acquiring discount chicken from the back of the box truck down at the fire house probably isn’t one of those universal experiences and maybe I should have asked more questions. Who raised these chickens? And how did our small-town volunteer fire company come upon them? Perhaps they came from a local slaughterhouse or farmer, but truly I have no idea. I never asked who raised the chickens; how the volunteer fire company came upon them; or who owns the nondescript box truck.
Now, forearm-deep in buttermilk and barely-thawed chicken legs, I wonder if I have been harboring illegal chicken in my deep freezer. Probably not, though. I mean, how naive could I be at 44?
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