There’s a dinosaur in my oven, skin crisping under Italian oil,
perched on French onions, stuffed with Sicilian lemons.
We add all the flavour to the bird that once inspired the warring
Themistocles who never would have thought to broil this brawler.
I can already feel it in my mouth: easy to chew, soft stringy texture,
the right amount of bland. It’s a flavour we’d like all creatures to have.
Someone else raised her over six weeks to reach my heat. Someone else
plucked, bound, beheaded her. Someone else wrapped her in plastic so I
could roast away ten millennia of history for a Sunday. It was holy once:
Roman alectormancy, divination, and its morning call to Christ-deniers.
Now, she clucks a short life to corn-fed completion, her heavier breast juicy
with meat and nourishing in her global billions. This flightless wonder.
Deep-fried for Christmas in Tokyo. Curried for a coronation.
Schmaltz rendered for the finest matzo ball soup. This flesh of versatility.
I plan my leftovers – that Tupperware transformation after roasting. Caesar salad,
sandwich, or spicy quesadilla? Anything to make the tasteless taste better.