No Spring Chicken

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“You go on ahead,” my Dad told me today as we went to pass by the deli.

Mum’s away for a while visiting my sister so I’d taken him to the shops to grab a few things.

“You want to sit down?” I asked him.

“No,” he said, looking a smidge excited. “Those are the biggest chicken pieces I’ve ever seen. I’m going to grab some.”

I went off to get some cat food and kitty litter (I don’t understand the math but two cats go through more than double what one cat does) and he shuffled towards the counter smacking his lips.

Chickens have come a long way since my parents were kids. They all too often tell me how much smaller chickens were when they were young, and how one chook, which was only tabled for special occasions, could feed a family of seven with enough left over to do their lunches the next day.

Whereas my experience is one cooked chook sometimes doesn’t make it all the way home from the supermarket.

So if you’ve grown up watching chickens becoming bigger and cheaper and meatier and more readily available, there would be some kind of wow factor involved in seeing a big piece of chicken on sale.

…I guess?

And when I caught up with him he did seem to be genuinely pleased. He was carrying three large wrapped parcels from the deli and chuckling to himself.

“Jeez,” I said. “How many pieces did you get?”



“Yep,” he confirmed, laughing now. He went on, “I was trying to work out whether they were genetically modified chickens, or just the result of breeding.”

“And?” I asked. I knew there was a punchline coming.

He pointed at the sticker on one of the packets.

Oh, Dad, you turkey.

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Thigh anyone?
‘Raising a family on little more than laughs.’

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