saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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The quail have returned. Long live the quail.
Yesterday, Rewind stopped her car so I could lean over in the passenger's seat and scream for all I was worth at the baby quail running about on the pavement outside.
Oh. Oh, wait. Digression coming on…
You know those packaged chicken carcasses in the meat section of the grocery store? The ones that say "Young Chicken with Giblets Included," and all you can do is think about how adolescent chickens are being massacred when they've got so much more to do in life, like pecking up grain, and bok-bok-ing, and cocking their heads at you in that creepy way that means they feel threatened and are about to fly suddenly at your head, attempting to peck your eyes out, so WHO CARES REALLY IF THEIR SUPPLE, JUICY BODIES END UP ON A ROTISSERIE ANYWAY, THOSE UNBALANCED PIECES OF SHIT.
Right?
Yeah, I was trying to picture how a little baby quail on a rotisserie would look.
People actually eat quail, right? See, I don't dig that. At. All. Makes no sense to me to consume something that I could just pop into my mouth and spit out the bones and then say, "Great! Now my stomach is still so cavernously empty that I can get drunk off of only two cocktails!"
Maybe if they served them with a lot of mashed potatoes and gravy, and a cheesecake on the side?
Oh! I'm thinking they might be hors d'oeuvres, right? Like, at parties the waiters bring around platters with little cooked corpses, like quail and squirrel and hamsters and hummingbirds. Maybe a pate of ferret liver.
This is not at all where I meant to go with this entry.
So. Yes. Rewind and me. In the car. Baby quail. Lots of screaming.
Rewind said, "Look! Look at the parents!" She pointed to the male and female adults where they stood looking panicked and relatively brain-damaged, up on some rocks above. It looked as if the baby couldn't get up on the rocks in order to escape us.
"They're…they're running away!" Rewind said, incredulously. "Look at that! They've abandoned him! Those bastards!"
Well, yeah. Duh. I never said they were noble birds. You want a bald eagle? Some sort of falcon? Or a swan, or some other bird that gives the impression that if they were human, they would be eating ferret pate in the country club and you'd be the one serving it?
Fine. I'm going to scream at quail, thanks. At least I can feel vastly superior to them, no matter how you look at it.
Quail. They're an annual experience.
3:33 p.m. - 2003-06-17
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