Ok - I hate touching raw meat, let alone eating it, but I decided that I feel ok about eating meat that I know is good. So once I got used to the idea of Beaky in the fridge, and decided that it was just chicken, and that I've eaten chicken before, I quickly drank two glasses of champagne and washed her out.I melted several teaspoons of butter in the pan, then browned the chook. Then I heated up the oven, placed her in my favourite casserole dish, covered her in a bottle of reasobnably good red wine, and baked her in the oven. An hour later, I sauteed some white onions and mushooms. I poured the red wine into the pan and left the chook in the oven to keep warm. Monte thickened up the gravy with some cornflour. We served the chicken with scolloped potatoes (including one of our own sweet potatoes) and loads of gravy.
Georgia thought the meal absolutely delicious. She got gravy everywhere. When I said "bok bok bok" she said, "Don't do that mummy because we're eating the chicken." I am so proud of her, being so OK with eating one of our chooks. Georgia's name means "Farmer, tiller of the earth," and she really suits that name. Beaky means "delicious," now. And we'd slaughter another chook again. Maybe for Christmas.
