One Easter, when I was probably about 5 or 6, my parents thought it would be cute to buy my brother and I some baby chickens. Easter morning after we found our baskets, my dad brought out these cute fuzzy little yellow baby chicks. Looking back, I don’t know what possessed my neat freak parents to buy live chickens. But they were adorable, and for a while they lived in our backyard. They grew into chickens rather quickly.
So before Easter I was telling my brother, who was two years old at the time, how mother hens sit on their eggs to keep them warm. We had this game where we pretended to be chickens and sat on those little plastic eggs and squawked around, flapping our arms. That’s still one of my favorite games. Just kidding. But I think you can see where this is going.
One day we were out in the yard playing with the chicks, and my brother sat on my chick. MY chick. He obviously thought he was keeping it warm, but it turned out that he squished it. And my chicken was no more.
About a month later, my grandma came and took the remaining chicken and made it into soup.
Then my parents got us a dog.
Since then, we’ve had many dogs and cats, but never any chickens. And yes, I’m fairly sure that I ate that chicken soup.