George was gentle, she didn't ever go near my eyes, and I began to think of her as my own pet. I'd hold her, stroke her feathers, and cluck at her lovingly across the yard.
Fast forward a year, and a hotel pan full of raw chickens was placed in front of me on the first day of Cooking Theory class. I instantly wanted to cry, faint, and throw up all at once. George would not approve of this. Touching raw poultry was something I'd been avoiding my entire life. But there they were, and they needed to have the meat, fat, and flesh taken off the bones for stock.
By the end of class I'd been holding back tears for hours and wanted to run back to my friends house to see George.
On one of the last days of class, I was again given a hotel pan of raw chickens. But I didn't let myself fear the chickens, I knew I could do it if I could block out the emotions. Those chickens weren't George, they weren't loving pets, they were food. I still love George, and I still loved roast chicken, but now, I know that there's definitely a difference between the two and that emotions don't always belong in the kitchen.