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Wasn’t Egg-specting That

| Related | November 6, 2016

(I live out in a fairly rural area, and thus keep a variety of animals for basic needs (cows for milk, chickens for eggs, etc.) so don’t have to drive several miles to the store for groceries all the time. On this particular day my boyfriend’s parents are coming over for dinner and, as a surprise, say they’ll be doing the cooking. Since this means my boyfriend and I have time to head out on one of our monthly treks for feed and supplies, we leave them to the kitchen duties, and come home to a nicely laid table and the scents of something very delicious in the air.)

Me: “Wow, smells like you two outdid yourselves!”

Boyfriend’s Mom: “Yep! Dig in!” [Boyfriend’s Father] is just washing his hands and cleaning up from butchering.”

Me: “Butchering?”

(I get a better look at the table, and notice the centerpiece a huge, steaming plate of roast chickens.)

Me: “That’s… wait… Where did you get the chickens from?”

Boyfriend’s Mom: “From your pen. Good timing, too! Those babies were all nice and plump and perfect!”

Me: *now horrified* “My… my pen!? Those are my chickens?”

Boyfriend’s Mom: “What are you shouting for? What’s the problem?”

Boyfriend: “Mom, those chickens were for our egg supply!”

Me: “They had names!”

Boyfriend’s Mom: “You assign names to your meat?”

(Needless to say, dinner ended up being cancelled and my boyfriend’s parents weren’t allowed to visit for a long time. They still have trouble understanding that there are other reasons for keeping animals than just to eat them.)

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