My precious, impressionable daughter was helping in the kitchen, all innocent in her apron until she saw real-life spread out before her. Hovering between fascination and sheer horror she emphatically proclaimed "I WILL NOT eat it's privates Mom!!" Fair enough. I wouldn't either, although it would be fun to see Shaun have a go at them.
I got over the trauma of decapitating clucky with my kitchen shears, rubbed him down with seasoning, and plopped him in the oven. An hour and a half later we were good to go, the cluckster was nicely browned and smelling fine, and Sunday dinner was BACK in all it's glory, and quite good I might add.
Then, Shaun went and ruined it for all of us. Upon the final dissection of the bird, he found these tucked neatly inside:
It's. . . THE CLAW!!
After enduring my husband's tirade concerning chickens, scratching claws, and poop, I was quite certain clucky was about to make a reappearance at the porcelain throne. Needless to say, he will not be gracing our Sunday table ever, EVER again. Sorry Grandma. Sweet husband dearest, do you want the left-overs for lunch??