Mrs Fly is terrified of bugs. She used to scream at the top of her lungs upon seeing them when we were younger; but now she just screams a little and calls for my help.
Over the past several weeks we’ve been visiting the local Farmers Market, a denizen of hipsters dressed in rags selling organic produce and meat. I of course don’t mind high quality food, locally sourced, and also because I’m sick of giving Whole Foods all of my business for produce that tastes like water.
She had a wonderful time shopping in what was described to me as a “super cut place filled with nice people.”
At any rate, we bought salad, greens and some chicken and prepared dinner. As she was cleaning the salad and rinsing it as she always does, she noticed small bugs crawling around. But they were small and posed little threat, so she rinsed some more. And then a scream let out, the sort of scream one hears during a tragedy. I rushed to the kitchen to see what the hell was happening and she pointed to the salad with her hand over her mouth, “there’s a big bug in the salad.” I looked over to it and it was a stink bug who had just let out his stink into her salad. I removed and flushed it and she tossed the salad into the trash.
She then cooked two chicken quarters for us and about an hour later served. We cut into the chicken and it was as hard as a rock, clearly not the same type of young chicken she’s accustomed to at Whole Foods. This chicken was bigger and tougher, likely much older and had acquired some fucking muscles roaming around in its free range denizen of ethically responsible farming.
We tossed the chicken too and declared it to be “inedible.”
We ended up having some roasted potatoes and carrots for dinner, with a little side of ethically farmed green beans.
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