You Might be a Redneck If...

Well, it's happened. We ate roadkill.

Jeff Foxworthy should be giving us a phone call any day now.

It came about in the most innocent of fashions. Let's set the scene. Carol was putting up Christmas decorations at the main gate. Chickens were happily scratching about in the fallen leaves, on both sides of the road.
School bus was approaching, at some pace, on the way home for the end of the day. Young, foolish chicken leapt off the bank on the far side of the road and landed smack dab on the front bumper of the bus. Wham.

This, oh dearly beloved, is why we teach our children to stop and look both ways. It does not, regretably, answer the question of why the chicken crossed the road.

Carol, who grew up in Brazil and had a brief but stellar career as a small child helping prepare the chickens for the stew pot, scooped up the still fluttering pile of feathers.

She came to the stable, chicken dangling from one hand. It is perhaps a small thing in the great events of the world, but the demise of a chicken is still 'something', and makes me sad. She asked permission to cook it. After all, the worst was over...

Now, while I am quite attached to the gals in the barn, and cannot bring myself to dismiss any of them for the simple sin of growing old and stopping egg production, I have no problem with a chicken that has committed suicide. It seemed a shame to waste it.

Which is how we came to be eating a bowl of chicken soup, with Bondi grown potatoes, carrots, leeks, parsley and -- yes -- chicken. It was excellent.

David's working in Huntsville for a Surveyor as part of his College work-term. When he told them, the office came to a standstill, collapsing in laughter. "You ate roadkill!"

It's true... we might be rednecks...