While checking in with Facebook today, a friend had posted as her status the fact she had passed a chicken truck on the way home and had kind of lost her desire for chicken at least for a little while. It reminded me of a post I had written back in the summer about such an occurrence in my own life and decided it was time to pull it out of the archives. So, keep that summer heat of South Georgia in your mind when you read about the temperatures we were trying to escape. Here goes.
Last weekend, Rob and I evacuated the heat of this Southwest Georgia valley town to drive up to the cooler mountain temperatures. The suppressed blood counts from the memorable fatigue-filled Memorial Day weekend prior had postponed our penciled-in plans. I’m appreciating the value of the eraser on my tiny pencil in my Moleskine planner.
After enjoying lunch in Atlanta where they serve a LOVELY demitasse of homemade chicken broth, we hit the road again and made good time through good traffic onto Highway I-985/GA 23/441.
We passed a normal and frequent sight once we got back on the road; 18-wheelers loaded with empty chicken cages with feathers occasionally blowing back.
We arrived at our weekend spot, enjoyed cool temperatures, clean air, good rest, reading, fresh veggies from the local produce stand, and some Netflix dvds. Then, we had to return home.
On the return trip we passed 18-wheelers filled with white, plump, caged chickens. Cages were ten high, two wide, and maybe eight to ten deep (maybe more) down the length of the trucks. I’m not sure how many chickens were in each cage but I commented on the fact that I would prefer to not be on the bottom tier of all those since the cages are open-bottomed. Okay, if I’m really being honest, I’d rather not be a chicken on one of those trucks and eventually on someone’s dinner table ever.
I’m too chicken to be a chicken.
I sound like I am not a fan of chicken farmers. That’s not the case. I have just never given it much thought until Monday as I was finishing the last bite of my Chick-Fil-A spicy chicken sandwich and we happened to be passing one of those full trucks. Gulp.
I’m not sure if it was the sight of the truck with chickens on a one-way trip to some slaughter house in the chicken processing capital of the world (Gainesville, GA) or if the spices on my sandwich didn’t agree with a more tender stomach these days. I won’t order another of those sandwiches for a while.
Thanks to Carleen for the reminder of the unpublished post.