When I was a wee lad, I watched my friend’s grandmother take a live chicken and butcher it and clean it. I had seen my other friend’s dad cut the head off a chicken and we all watched it run around, but we did not remain for the festivities after. The bad part is what follows, and after seeing more than enough of my first friend’s grandmothers deeds I have been more enthusiastic about processed meats that do not at all resemble the animal. And, as a general rule, unless the chicken is very, very good I like it cooked till it is pretty dry.
But I like KFC, even the pieces. I suppose they come relatively dry, especially cold. I like cold chicken. I think if aliens came and took out KFC it would be a sad day for me.
I enjoy chicken cordon-bleu. There you have the processed deal and you can eat it in a civilized way—with the fork in your left hand, cutting bits off neatly, watching the cheese come gushing out, hoping there will be enough for every bite, stewarding it carefully, wondering whose idea it was to mix ham and chicken, glad that at least they remembered the cheese, grateful in general for everything while it lasts. In Mexico I had chicken cordon-bleu deep fried and it was lovely. I think if the aliens come, they might go there.