Why I hate Spaghetti

Every Sunday, we had dinner with Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa was born in Sicily, at the turn of the last Century. "Old Fashioned" doesn't even begin to describe him. He served in both World Wars, and was married twice. His first wife died in childbirth. Their son was stillborn. Grandma took cooking lessons from an old Sicilian woman, so she could prepare foods from his homeland. Every other day, she served Italian food, and Sunday was always spaghetti day. I ate spaghetti once a week for 13 years. I will never eat it again.

She would vary the meat to go with the spaghetti. One week we'd cut up 3-5 whole chickens, the next she'd make meatballs. When I was small, I shredded lettuce for the salad. As I grew, I progressed to cutting veggies, skinning tomatoes, and finally, butchering chickens. I'll never forget the day I cut up my first chicken. Grandpa had passed away by this time, so we were only disecting 4 birds. Aunt Petrina told Grandma I was old enough to help cut. They had a little argument, and then Petrina put a nice sharp butcher knife in my 9 year old hands.

I was delighted, but frightened at the same time. I'd seen how cleanly the knife sliced through the chicken. I'd seen how easily it went through the joint between the leg and thigh. And I'd seen numerous Aunts say, "Damn!" and rush off to bandage their hand, because the knife had slipped.

Petrina broke the shoulders of a chicken carcass and showed me where to start. I carefully cut out the wishbone, trying so hard not to crack it prematurely. I succeeded, only to break it as I tried to dislodge it from the breastbone. Petrina told me not to worry. It wasn't my fault. It was a "weak chicken". She said I'd probably need help with the legs too.
Doing the breasts and back were easy. The butcher knife slid right through the rib and back bones. It was easier than cutting cold butter. The legs, however, were a different matter. By the time I had gotten to that point, all the other chickens were done, and all 5 of my uncles were crowded in the doorway to the kitchen, silently watching. I bent the "knee" of the bird over the knife blade, gave a good tug upwards and pop!, I had separated a leg from a thigh. Filled with triumph, I sliced off the other leg and went after the thigh.

If you've never cut up a chicken, let me tell you, there's a trick to removing the thighs. A trick which I didn't know at 9 years of age. You have to break the joint first. The knife wouldn't separate the joint. It slipped to one side, or slid to the other, and would not cut where it was supposed to. So, I sat at the kitchen table stubbornly sawing through the thigh bone. This stupid bird was not going to defeat me! I was totally engrossed in my work, and I didn't hear the smothered giggles of my Uncles at first. Aunt Petrina heard them, however; and she came to my rescue.

She said, "There's a faster way, honey." and picked up the chicken by the thighs. She held it up and gave a quick jerk with both hands, cleanly dislocating the joints. Well, dislocating the joint I hadn't been sawing away at, anyway. What was left of the other one wouldn't pop. I had mutiliated it too badly. She taught me how to wedge the knife between the joints properly, and press down to cut through it. About this time, Mom and J finished the salad and came to see what everyone was looking at. She screamed when she saw her "baby" had a butcher knife, and totally missed seeing me cut the last of the chicken. I triumphantly added the thigh to the pile on the table, just as Mom laid into Petrina for letting me grow up a bit.

That night, someone made sure I got the sorry, mutilated thigh for dinner.