cluck 2 February 2012
Chicken is a big favourite in the McLynn household, amongst both humans and hairies. I even tried a great chicken soup midday on a play reading recently that was v good indeed (it just might have been from a place with Pret in the title). And, reading a Janet Evanovich novel just now, I was reminded that the kookier inhabitants of Trenton New Jersey love Cluck in a Bucket. So, chooks have been featuring heavily. So much so that when I opened the ‘big’ oven in McLynn Mansion some days ago and found a long forgotten chicken I was overcome with several conflicting emotions – the greatest of which was how to blame Richard for abandoning the carcass there, whether he had or not.
It was quite a sight. The whole thing was like a mohair rendition of a cooked chicken – same shape but incredibly hirsute, in subtle shades of bluey greeny greys. It was, in its awful way, very lovely. And almost alive with penicillin, I thought – don’t know if I remember my science properly but wasn’t that discovered in mould? Struck me too that I was probably looking at my Turner Prize entry, or part thereof. It would comprise a kitchen and in every cupboard, pot and covered cooking spot there would be a living thing created by man’s neglect (superbusy modern lifestyle denying time for cleanliness etc) like my hairy chicken – mirroring life but with a twist. And an adventure for all attending the exhibit as the guest would have to open all pots etc to find the artistic statement. Now! I’m already at work on my acceptance speech.
I was also reminded of my pal’s Jonathan and Anne when they moved into their house many years ago and began to renovate it. One of the elderly sellers had thoughtfully left a partially eaten dinner in a cupboard (lamb chops and veg, if I am not mistaken) perhaps as sustenance for the young family about to move in. Mm hmm HMM!
