I don't know if you remember but once, a while back, I decided I was going to roast a chicken because it seemed like something I should do and it was both frightening and disgusting. Just a couple days ago, I decided that I was going to cook a whole chicken again, mostly because I was tired of looking at my husband with exhausted eyes every night and saying something along the lines of, "I guess we could eat cereal for dinner?" which is one of the most depressing things a person can say because you DO NOT EAT CEREAL FOR DINNER unless you've completely given up on life.

Anyway, I decided this time that I was going to cook the chicken in the slow cooker because friends had just turned me on the brilliant fact that this is something you can actually do.

Also, most importantly, I've been getting really into food in the past couple years, including knowing where my food comes from and I do realize that when you eat nameless, faceless chicken breasts you're pretty removed from the process. Not that this chicken had a name or a face, but you get the picture. I'm not dealing with the whole animal when I cook, and although I probably never will (bless you and big respect Cory, the way you roast those whole pigs) I'd like to at least improve.

So I bought my whole chicken and removed the giblets, an effort which produced stress on the same level or maybe slightly less as the weekend I had to finish all my college applications and I almost died.

Then, as the chicken was lying there with its little arms and legs, or however they're properly termed in the animal world, all splayed out, and I was skinning the thing, holy Jesus skinning it, because the cooking instructions I was going by suggested this would produce a superior result, I uttered, suddenly - I couldn't help myself - "Thank you, thank you for giving your life for me."

I am not even kidding you guys. I said it in a totally honest and meaningful way, and that is the moment I got a little closer to my fellow species. And to throwing up.