So today while I was
"Hey honey, I had to kill an extra chicken. Do you want to use it tonight, or should I put it in the freezer?"
Yes, these are the sorts of things I'm coming to expect to hear from my husband now.
You see, back in May we bought a small flock of roasters specifically to sell for meat, and while "processing an order" today, one of the silly little cluckers got its wing broken. And since my husband is determined to only provide high-quality goods, it would never do to sell a chicken with a broken wing (regardless of the fact that the customer was his own mother who never uses the wings anyway).
Did you ever see the movie "Cold Mountain"? I'm reminded of the scene where Nicole Kidman was being terrorized by a rooster and Bridget Jones comes up, casually wrings the bird's neck and says, "Let's put 'em in a pot."
Seriously, if you'd come up to me five years ago and said, "Wendy, someday you're going to be cooking animals that were running around in your yard half an hour earlier," I would've backed away slowly while looking for an object to defend myself with. But here I am, plucking the feathers out of tonight's dinner.
Lord help me when we start raising pigs.