Tastes Like Chicken

I'm a blight on the pristine face of Southern Hospitality.  No really.  It's true.

This past weekend, while meal planning on Pinterest, I came across this delicious looking recipe for chicken noodle soup.  It's Paula Deen's.  I like Paula.  I admire all that she's accomplished and the few recipes I've had enough butter to try to make were very enjoyable.  I don't even mind the whole spokesperson for Type 2 Diabetes thing.  It's not exactly like she claimed to be a nutritionist.  And I don't think Ms. Deen (no offense ma'am) glamorizes the disease.  How glamorous can an overweight woman in her 60s with large gray hair be?  Fabulous, yes.  Glamorous, hardly.  She writes cookbooks and hosts cooking shows.  And I don't think many people would deny that bacon does make everything better.

Ok, back to the chicken soup.  It calls for a whole chicken, a "roaster".  I've never purchased a whole chicken and could only find a "fryer."  I sure hope that's good enough.  The bird is supposed to be cut into pieces and cooked in onions and herbs to make homemade stock for the base of the soup.  I'm not unaware of the things that make me squeamish, so I had Jonathan hack the poor thing up last night.  I thought that would be good enough.  Through a well-practiced series of maneuvers with tongs, ladles, and kitchen shears I've developed over the years, I'd never actually have to touch the raw chicken.  Check.  My little buddy has now been stewed in herbs and all I have to do is pick it clean once it cools.

I start in on the process feeling pretty proud of myself for what I am about to accomplish.  Homemade Chicken Noodle Soup.  The realization that my husband's coworkers will be jealous of his lunch swell my ego.  But only a minute into the process, the "squish" noises, goopy/stretchy boiled skin, and crunching of bones band together to chip away at my confidence, I lose it.  Completely.  There is lots of gagging and even a stupid little dance.  (You know, the one you do when a spider crawls across the bathroom floor.)  I'm sweating.  Not because the task is physically taxing, but because I am that. freaked. out.  I finish the job and wash the horrible greasy mess off my hands.

The soup is currently on the stove top.  It smells amazing but I am not sure I can eat it.  Even if it is the best chicken noodle soup recipe on the face of this earth, I will not be picking a chicken clean to make it again.  Southern women will just have to kick me out of the club if that's what it takes.