The package said “stewing hen.” I was warned but I did not believe. Size-wise, it was obviously a baking chicken! Good sized, just perfect for roasting. As I was prepping it for the pan, I rejoiced in the fatty, thick skin that I usually only find in organic, truly free-range birds.
Hum…no. It was a tough old bird. After roasting it for longer than I thought I should, the bird was still chewier than I’m used to. Good flavor, though. Probably a flavor intensity similar to any other old bird, myself included. Did you catch the season opener for Walking Dead? Where after 4 years they finally ran into a band of people living the cannibalistic lifestyle? I’m not saying that this was a good thing, I think eating people’s flesh is really, really nasty-yucky even in fiction, even in television. Don’t go there if you end up in a zombie apocalypse and manage to survive several years of scrounging around abandoned houses.
And don’t stay on the East Coast. Lots of people over there, most of them zombiefied by now. Head northwest, get into corn-and-bean territory and find a good place to hole up. Someone, who warned me not to plan to go there cause he wanted to survive within the marble walls, said he would head for the St. Cloud prison. Federal or State? Do you know? Anyway, now that I know, I’ve got dibs and so you all just stay away, too, OK?
I pulled the moist, still-warm meat off my stewing hen and plan to chop it up for chicken salad, a dish in which the firmness will be a plus. Next time I will listen to the packaging. And I’ll continue to look for the perfect place to survive the zombies. You with me, there?