I love fairy tales.
Especially folk tales. They’re so…folksy, and wise, and cautionary.
Here’s my favorite:
Cute, silly, Chicken Little, lives a life of ignorant bliss skittering around the farm yard, visiting with his friends, imagining his importance, having his meals served to him, and a clean warm bed to snuggle into each and every frickin’ night.
If his feathers need grooming- they are groomed by the farmer’s wife.
If his feed is maggoty, it is changed.
If he throws a hissy-fit because he wants to play in the big boy pool and the farmer’s wife thinks he still needs floaties, his friends usually acquiesce and join him- regardless of the consequences.
He is blessed with the illusion of righteousness.
Sweet little chicken. So adorable. So entertaining.
It’s an acorn.
“I think the sky is falling. The sky is falling!”
It’s an acorn darling.
“I don’t think so. I better go see the King or at least go to the hardware store!”
The King wouldn’t know how to fix this. He has servants. And I’m right here.
“This is a man’s job. I’m sure it’s more complicated then you know. Women.”
“Hey there Ducky Lucky. I’ve got to go to see the King. Wanna come? Yea, that’s right. I think the sky is falling. Seriously? Okay. Call Goosey Loosey and Turkey Lurky. Yea. They’ll wanna come. What? Oh, great idea! Yea, we can do that. Might as well make an afternoon out of it. No, she won’t mind. She’s got nothing going on. What? Who cares!”
And, off Chicken Little goes, swinging by to pick-up all of his friends, because a chicken can’t change a light bulb unless he has all of his buds involved.
So, while the acorns are gathering in the yard (because of the seasonal change that is the result of a 23.45 degree tilt of the planet’s rotational axis around the sun as said planet receives either shorter or more direct sunlight along a perpendicular position with our largest star, and which creates the cestation of stored glucose within the tree, which decreases elasticity by which the tree holds onto it’s fruit), Chicken Little and his friends proceed to blow-off an entire afternoon on a quest to save the world from a manufactured calamity. Together. All of them. Hysterical.
The farmer’s wife, on the other hand, is FaceBooking the other idiot’s wives, and they collectively decide to kill the chickens and serve them for dinner to the fox.
|Cold Chicken Salad
in Radicchio Cups