I bought a farm fresh rotisserie chicken at our local grocery store. Easy, tasty, just the slightest hint of nutrition.
I ate some for dinner and later that night felt a bit queasy, so I went to bed. The next morning I gave it the carcass test: I took off the lid of the package and smelled the bird.
Usually these chickens are finger lickin’ good, but this one? Yuck. Eww. Nope, not this time. This is a sick chick.
I have a hard time throwing away food. Tossing even bad food seems to be a waste. So Lisa and I carried the not-so-farm-fresh rotisserie chicken over to the park, Frick Park.
Standing on a bluff, overlooking a gully that is home to countless critters (worms, squirrels, non-chicken birds, deer) we tossed the not-so-farm-fresh rotisserie chicken right over the edge into the gully. We flicked the chick.
We flicked the chick in Frick. It is the Frick Park Chicken Chuck.
Then I got a tick. It didn’t stick.
Lisa says, “No harm, no fowl.”