I.
“Why don’t you want to eat it?” she said.
“Because it’s not real chicken. It’s not real,” he said.
“Well, there’s got to be some chicken in it or else they couldn’t sell it as ‘Chicken Nuggets.’”
“Says who?”
“Says somebody important. Here. Read the package.”
“Well, it’s not all chicken like it used to be.”
“‘Like it used to be?’” she said. “We were both raised on Mexican TV dinners on aluminum trays. What the hell’s real in that?”
“My grandmother wrung real necks and plucked real feathers and battered real chicken breasts in real chicken eggs and real flour,” he said.
“That way of doing things died a long time ago.”
“Then I’m going to get some real chickens.”
“You do that,” she said.
II.
“Where do you get chickens anyway?” he said.
“This is going to be harder than you thought, isn’t it?” she said.
“We’ll see.”
III.
“Do we have any more milk?” he said.
“Only soy milk,” she said.
“Dad gommit.”
IV.
“Did you find your chickens?” she said.
“What?” he said.
“You’re enjoying that chicken quesadilla. I was wondering if you’d found your chickens yet or if you’d decided this chicken would do.”
“You just ruined it for me.”
“Oh, you knew.”
V.
“I found the chickens I want,” he said.
“Where at?” she said.
“On a website. In a catalog if you can believe.”
“I believe it.”
“Well I couldn’t. ‘The Jumbo Cornish Cross is a fast-developing, broad breasted meat type chicken. Ready to dress in six weeks or sooner.’”
“‘Fast-developing?’ Does that mean hormones? Is that a real enough chicken for you?”
“You’re killing me,” he said.
VI.
“Okay,” he said. “Craigslist. Listen to this.”
“Chickens?” she said.
“Yes.”
“You’ve been on this for a few weeks. I’m impressed.”
“This family raises meat chickens,” he said. “‘These birds are raised with no growth hormones, no antibiotics and no chemicals. They are all natural chicken. ‘We are processing today and have chickens available for pick up.’ And they’re just up the road in McKinney.”
“So, they raise them?”
“Yes.”
“Not you?”
“Please,” he said.
“Alright,” she said.
“Alright.”
“That’s real enough for you?” she said.
“Yes. That will do.”
“They dress them, too?”
“Yes, they do,” he said. “It’s nice of them. I at least know where the chickens are coming from and who’s raising them and how, like with my grandmother. I don’t have to do it myself.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said. “And do they grill them, cut them up in quarter-inch squares, toss them with cheeses and sautéed onions and peppers, put them between tortillas, grill the quesadillas, seal them, package them, and freeze them for you?”
“Come on,” he said.
“Do they put them into our soup cans for you? Or bread them like your grandmother did and put them in a convenient zipper-lock, freezer-safe bag like she didn’t?”
“You’re killing me.”
“Sounds like you’re prepared to kill me, if you get those chickens.”
“That food is going to kill you and me,” he said. “What is it if it isn’t real chicken?”
“So let’s die with more time on our hands,” she said.
“That makes no sense,” he said.
“It makes perfect sense. Rather than eating better and living longer, I’ll eat poorer and die younger while having saved years of dressing chickens for you.”
“Then I’ll buy some chickens, raise and dress them myself, and cook my own meals by myself.”
“Not for me too?” she said.
VII.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Unloading,” he said.
“What are you unloading?”
“A chicken coop set and chicken wire.”
“There goes Christmas for your grandchildren,” she said.
VIII.
“That’s not a rooster, right?” she said. “Honey, you knew to buy a chicken, right?”
IX.
“What are you doing now?” she said.
“Cleaning out the coop,” he said.
X.
“What in the hell, honey!” she said.
“Shut the door!” he said. “Shut it!”
“Its head is half off!”
“Don’t let it in the house! Oh, damn.”
“Get that thing out of my house now!” she said. “Now!”
XI.
“I’m not eating that,” she said.
“What? Why?” he said.
“‘Why?’ You butchered the poor thing. It ran through my house fully conscious of its head half cut off. It stepped on my foot. I saw feathers covered in blood—in my kitchen trash.”
“It’s chicken. It’s an animal. It has blood and it has feathers.”
“Everything about your slaughtering it was improper.”
“What do you think they do to chickens at Tyson’s? It’s all machines there.”
“But I saw it.”
“Well now we’re getting somewhere,” he said.
XII.
“Well, it’s gone,” he said.
“What did you get for it all?” she said.
“Almost as much as I paid for it.”
“Your grandchildren shall have a Christmas.”
“They always were. And I was never going to keep it.”
“I knew that,” she said.
“I knew you knew that,” he said. “Why the hell do I ever do anything?”
“Because you have too much time on your hands.”
“Well let’s eat then.”