Naming Chicken Parts
On Monday the nutrition class students each cut up a chicken in class. I had demonstrated this process last Monday with accompanying commentary, most of which was apparently lost on the audience, given the number of panicked questions I fielded while the process was underway this week.
"What is that? Is it a tail? Do you leave it on?"
"What's this?" (pointing out a small kidney bean shaped yellow organ). Why was that thing left in there? These were already-cleaned chickens.
"It's either a hen or a rooster part," I said delicately and disingenuously. I'm brave, but not quite brave enough to utter "testicles" in a mixed-gender class of 14 freshmen and sophomores--each with a butcher knife in hand. Wouldn't want convulsive giggles to provoke any accidental brandishing of lethal weapons.
Some drumsticks were prematurely dismembered, with the thigh pieces still firmly attached to the bird's body. Other pieces were curiously shaped, with the knife apparently not having readily found the sweet spot for severing between the joints. Several birds were evidently of advanced age, and most of the breast bone cartilage had turned hard. No wonder the students couldn't break the breastbone at its fixed joint, to separate it from the wishbone.
"That's the giblets and the neck," I said in response to one person holding up a soaked little white paper package.
"I don't think I want it," he said, wrinkling his nose slightly.
"Then give it to me," I answered. I'll cook it for chicken broth." Necks were apparently not a coveted chicken part. I brought home four or five of them, some of them fished out of what some people thought should go into the compost. Most of the rest was skin or fat.
"Can I just cut off this skin? It's loose anyway and flapping around here."
"How do I get those kidneys out of there? Do I just have to dig them out with my fingers?"
"This place stinks."
"This is so awesome. When I grow up, I want to go to college and be a doctor."
"Don't put skin or fat down the disposal. I don't think the machine can digest them." (I think I was too late with these instructions.)
What are we supposed to do with the things we don't want?"
"Put them in the compost bin." Susanna trotted out with the bowl of chicken scraps.
Someone apparently failed to get the memo, as evidenced by the chicken skin patch I saw in the trash can, perched on top of the cast-off Sunday carry-in Styrofoam plates and glasses. I hope that doesn't start smelling before the trash goes out.
On Tuesday and again today the kitchen windows were wide open when I got to school. Someone was doing their best to air out the place to get rid of lingering unsavory odors. At Mr. Schrock's suggestion, I did some detective work to see where the bad smells might be coming from.
Michael Jon had dutifully emptied the trash cans in the kitchen on Wednesday after school, going beyond the call of duty in the process. He had put in new liners, but he nevertheless carefully gave each individual trash can the sniff test today to try to isolate the source of the bad smells. "It's not the trash cans," he announced. I couldn't smell any particularly foul odors coming from there either. And neither could Mr. Schrock by the time the day was over. My smeller doesn't work extremely well, but Mr. Shrock's does, so I think there must have been a genuine improvement somewhere along the line.
I ran the disposal another time, mentally casting about for information on sweetening the smell--just in case there had been chicken fragments rotting in it.
For now, I'm blaming the people who filled the big trash can on Sunday and didn't empty it. Who knows what all may have been tossed in there for three day's worth of fermenting? I think the smell so permeated everything that it has taken this long to get rid of it, and the bad smell was purely coincidental to the chicken disassembling project. Unless a student comes forth with a confession for having done something I didn't see and couldn't imagine, we won't fall all over ourselves to apologize.
I told the students as they were finishing up that they should all go home and cut apart another chicken right away before they forget how. I don't suppose that any of them picked up on the suggestion. I don't know why. In years past I've had my nutrition class students begin the chicken project with chickens that could still cackle or crow. This class got off pathetically easy.
"What is that? Is it a tail? Do you leave it on?"
"What's this?" (pointing out a small kidney bean shaped yellow organ). Why was that thing left in there? These were already-cleaned chickens.
"It's either a hen or a rooster part," I said delicately and disingenuously. I'm brave, but not quite brave enough to utter "testicles" in a mixed-gender class of 14 freshmen and sophomores--each with a butcher knife in hand. Wouldn't want convulsive giggles to provoke any accidental brandishing of lethal weapons.
Some drumsticks were prematurely dismembered, with the thigh pieces still firmly attached to the bird's body. Other pieces were curiously shaped, with the knife apparently not having readily found the sweet spot for severing between the joints. Several birds were evidently of advanced age, and most of the breast bone cartilage had turned hard. No wonder the students couldn't break the breastbone at its fixed joint, to separate it from the wishbone.
"That's the giblets and the neck," I said in response to one person holding up a soaked little white paper package.
"I don't think I want it," he said, wrinkling his nose slightly.
"Then give it to me," I answered. I'll cook it for chicken broth." Necks were apparently not a coveted chicken part. I brought home four or five of them, some of them fished out of what some people thought should go into the compost. Most of the rest was skin or fat.
"Can I just cut off this skin? It's loose anyway and flapping around here."
"How do I get those kidneys out of there? Do I just have to dig them out with my fingers?"
"This place stinks."
"This is so awesome. When I grow up, I want to go to college and be a doctor."
"Don't put skin or fat down the disposal. I don't think the machine can digest them." (I think I was too late with these instructions.)
What are we supposed to do with the things we don't want?"
"Put them in the compost bin." Susanna trotted out with the bowl of chicken scraps.
Someone apparently failed to get the memo, as evidenced by the chicken skin patch I saw in the trash can, perched on top of the cast-off Sunday carry-in Styrofoam plates and glasses. I hope that doesn't start smelling before the trash goes out.
On Tuesday and again today the kitchen windows were wide open when I got to school. Someone was doing their best to air out the place to get rid of lingering unsavory odors. At Mr. Schrock's suggestion, I did some detective work to see where the bad smells might be coming from.
Michael Jon had dutifully emptied the trash cans in the kitchen on Wednesday after school, going beyond the call of duty in the process. He had put in new liners, but he nevertheless carefully gave each individual trash can the sniff test today to try to isolate the source of the bad smells. "It's not the trash cans," he announced. I couldn't smell any particularly foul odors coming from there either. And neither could Mr. Schrock by the time the day was over. My smeller doesn't work extremely well, but Mr. Shrock's does, so I think there must have been a genuine improvement somewhere along the line.
I ran the disposal another time, mentally casting about for information on sweetening the smell--just in case there had been chicken fragments rotting in it.
For now, I'm blaming the people who filled the big trash can on Sunday and didn't empty it. Who knows what all may have been tossed in there for three day's worth of fermenting? I think the smell so permeated everything that it has taken this long to get rid of it, and the bad smell was purely coincidental to the chicken disassembling project. Unless a student comes forth with a confession for having done something I didn't see and couldn't imagine, we won't fall all over ourselves to apologize.
I told the students as they were finishing up that they should all go home and cut apart another chicken right away before they forget how. I don't suppose that any of them picked up on the suggestion. I don't know why. In years past I've had my nutrition class students begin the chicken project with chickens that could still cackle or crow. This class got off pathetically easy.
posted by Mrs. I at
4:23 PM
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