I’m seldom at a loss for words, but I was that day. The image of all those poor chickens hanging upside down on the clothesline, squawking until someone broke their necks was just too much for me. I considered becoming a vegetarian.
The conversation was between an elderly lady in her 90s and a woman about my age who was a “mother earth” type and married to an American Indian. Obviously I’m a couple of generations from the farm.
Well, my grandmother dispatched them one at a time. No waiting. My hubby isn’t a sadist either.
I can imagine the shock. Sweet little quilting bee ladies and poof, they turn into Ted Bundy chicken torturers.