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hunterseat df: Hunter Seat Equitation is a division that is judged on the ability and the style of the rider. The riders can be judged both over fences and on the flat.

Although true, hunters DO eat, at least the skilled ones do, my name derives from the world of horses.

And because the word hunter is in my name, people automatically think I'm a guy. Not even close.

Whenever I meet someone named Hunter I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying "That's my name, too!"
Rating: 4 votes, 4.75 average.

Chicken Soup for the heck of it

Posted 02-15-2016 at 11:51 AM by hunterseat


Funny what occurs to one whilst picking a chicken carcass. Funny odd, not funny haha - okay maybe a little funny haha.

I cooked a whole chicken yesterday, and had a decision to make. The same decision we all make at Thanksgiving X5 because turkeys are bigger. By the time you cut all the knife-accessible meat off the bone you're just about worn out! You're really ready to chuck the rest in the trash! Somewhere in the recesses of your mind you can hear your grandma's voice: That would make good soup. Or it might be your mom's voice, or your spouse's, or even your own but now it's in your head. You're thinking about it. Soup. Great idea. Throw that puppy in the pot! Er, chicken carcass. Toss in some veggies, a few spices and let 'er stew. That's so easy!! Smells good, too!

Then... duhn duhn DUHN. It's time to get the bones out of your soup. Make no mistake, the bones MAKE the flavor! You gotta love the bones! It ain't called a soup bone for nothing! Anyway you better let the pot cool off because you WILL burn your fingers.

My thermostat never hits 60 so my soup cools off rather quickly. Using the spoon, I fish out a leg bone. (No one grabbed that drumstick last night.) Nice! The bone slides right out of the meat!! This is going to be simple!

Um...no it's not. Have you ever noticed how many bones are in a chicken? Did you ever walk into Colonel Sanders' and order a slab of chicken ribs? No! Because they're little tiny minuscule bones. The size bones that your loved ones can't detect before they wolf down a half a bowl of soup and start grabbing their throats and knocking over chairs in frantic desperation for air.

My son aspirated meconium in utero. (You look that up if you must but the rest of us are trying to debone a chicken carcass over here.) If he gets the eensiest beensiest bone in his food he raises Cane into tomorrow. Heck, if a spaghetti noodle slides down his throat you better get ready to Heimlich him. I wonder if his physical reaction is related to a memory of that whole in-utero thing? Or it could be a fervent love of oxygen. Hey, I get it. I hung myself in a toybox at 13 months old and to this day I love to breathe! Plus I can't stand anything around my neck.

So here I am, imagining the worst about my soup and secretly thankful my son won't be coming for supper tonight.

I was going to name this blog entry "Save the tooch for Grandma!" I wasn't sure how to spell tooch or if it meant anything to anyone but my close relatives. I see there is an urban slang word involving the posterior, of a human, not a chicken, which is way too coincidental. My Grandma called the tail of the chicken the tooch. Spooky, no? Sometimes when a chicken is cut up there's a piece that has the tail on it. Or not. Either way, wherever the tooch was found, it went to Grandma. Then someone said that mothers often got the smallest, least desirable portion and pretended they wanted it. That would make sense considering she had 13 children during the depression. I doubt there was ever enough chicken to go around. There's sure not much on the tooch. I know. I just picked it.

Thinking about that reminds me of why I dutifully pick the tiniest morsels from the bone. We are pioneer women when we do that. Not wasting any part of food. Not only that, can you imagine being a chicken, being raised for food and then having parts of you tossed in the trash? For the love of all chickens that have gone before, give it to the dogs at least!

But wait. Dogs aren't supposed to have chicken bones. I remember little Max who turned into a chicken killer when we moved to the country. I just thought it was the fresh air and exercise making his coat shiny and causing him to gain weight. No, it was the neighbor's chickens which nearly cost Max his life but landed him on the end of a runner chain until we could get the yard fenced. Anyway, Max sure didn't have any trouble with chicken bones!

As a kid our dogs ate the scraps of all meals. I don't care what kind of bone it was and neither did they! Probably comes from having a mother born during the depression. But now we can't give it to the dogs unless it's produced in the USA. I'm okay with that but do we care as much about what we put into our own bodies as we do about our dogs' nutrition? Really?

My two dogs sat with me dutifully, keeping me company while I picked the chicken carcass. I rewarded them for their faithfulness by tossing a few skin scraps. Do you know in Hawaii they call it getting chicken skin instead of goose bumps? Ooooh! Spooky stories give me chicken skin! My dogs love Hawaii!

Anyway, the soup's done and in the fridge, awaiting the dinner hour. All it needs is rice. Or noodles. Or dumplings. I hate decisions.

The dogs have retreated to their beds trying to keep warm. It's winter in New England. It hasn't been above freezing for weeks. I'm going to enjoy that soup. Thanks Grandma!
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Comments

  1. Old Comment
    Very Nice Recipe... I Will Definitely Try It...
    <a href="https://www.healthy-soup-recipes.com/">I Have Also Some Interesting Recipes.</a>
    permalink
    Posted 03-15-2020 at 08:55 AM by sayyadshah sayyadshah is offline
 

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