By: Byron H. Elton
I was born in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada in 1954. Back then, we went to church twice on Sundays and on occasion between the meetings we would stop off at the local “Kentucky Fried Chicken” and grab a bucket so that Mum wouldn’t have to cook. If we were particularly hungry, or we had guests, we would get a “barrel.” When the cardboard box with “finger lickin’ good” chicken was delivered, I would volunteer to hold it until we got home. I remember it was wonderfully warm in my lap, and the aroma of the Colonel’s magical blend of “11 herbs and spices” filled our Buick and my nostrils with a wonderful aroma and the promise of a chicken chow down.
I suppose they have changed the recipe since, but in those days, the bucket would be soaked in grease, inside and out. No amount of washings could erase the smell from my church pants, and I was a walking advertisement for the Colonel from Kentucky. We typically dispensed with more formal dining protocol and sat in front of the TV watching “Jungle Jim” and “77 Bengal Lancers” while feasting on chicken parts. There were wings, breasts, and the coveted drumsticks. The latter were the favoured selection for the youngest as they were the easiest to hold.
One Sunday afternoon, we were watching some cartoons while eating. One featured a group of chickens being hunted by a ravenous fox. They proved particularly elusive, and Mr. Fox never did catch one, but every time he looked at them, he imagined them as various parts to be eaten. Each body part would become enlarged and labeled and great drops of saliva fell from his mouth. I was just finishing my drumstick when he started fantasizing about the chicken’s legs. In an instant, I made the connection. I looked down at the drumstick in my hand and suddenly saw the bone, tendons, ligaments and skin. For the very first time I thought, “So that’s what a drumstick is!” I never looked at a chicken or any other animal that we ate the same way.
