Thursday, July 26, 2012

a bone to pick

One of the only nice things about my oldest daughter being away for the summer is that nobody ever asks me "what's for dinner?"  I can't stand that question!  So demanding, so assuming, so needy.  But baby Estie doesn't speak English yet, and the hubs knows better than to ask, so I haven't heard that question in like two months.  It's been nice.  Usually I just give B. a few options and we pick together, or he offers to cook if I don't say anything.  And sometimes there's nothing planned at all.  I call those "fend for yourself nights," and they usually end in frozen pizza.  Last night was one of those nights.  I let B. know ahead of time that there was basically just spaghetti and mayonnaise in the house, so he picked up a rotisserie chicken on the way home.  Such a doll!  Anyway, he asked me to save the wishbone when I was disposing of the carcass (gotta love that word).   Today when I got home from work I saw it there on the counter, all dry and pale, languishing in the lamp light next to the butter dish.  And I got to thinking... that's a bone from a dead animal.  On my counter.  Gross.  I'm no hipster vegan, I ate the hell outta that chicken - but saving its bone as a souvenir, to do things with later?  Like a war trophy?  What a morbid little tradition that is.  It's no different than keeping a scalp on your belt, really.  Yuck.  It got me wondering how the whole wishbone concept even started, so I went over to my shelf of encyclopedias... haha!  Anyway, I googled it, and it turns out the tradition is like 2,500 years old, originating with these dudes called the Etruscans who thought chickens could predict the future.  I won't bore you with the macabre details, but the point is: why are we still doing this?  I mean, I love my farm-fresh eggs, but I don't hang around the coop for one of the hens to read my palms after she lays.  It's just nonsense.  But then again, Christmas, Easter, Valentine's day, etc... I digress.

So I guess the takeaway lesson here can be summed up with two points, which I will illustrate photographically:

1. I got the bigger half when the hubs and I broke the wishbone, so I win.

2. Perhaps you remember Buck and Forrest,
the two former deer hanging on my living room wall?

So the lesson, in case you weren't paying attention, is
1 + 2 =
I'm a big fat hypocrite.

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