When I was a kid, Mom occasionally fixed us something for dinner called “city chicken legs.” We Honey kids thought this was a real treat. It was some kind of tasty meat on a stick, breaded and fried. They were like meat popsicles.
Come to find out city chicken was a low-cost alternative to real chicken, made from ground-up pork and/or veal. Also called mock chicken, it got popular among working-class homes during the Depression in urban areas like Pittsburgh, where apparently it’s undergone something of a revival, and Detroit, where no doubt Mom picked it up from Grandma, who pretty much lived in the kitchen.
These days city chicken may be making a comeback as a sort of alt-farm-to-table delicacy among urban foodies. But back in the late Fifties I didn’t care a whit about what it was made of, and certainly not whether it was any good for me. It just tasted great on a Friday night, right next to the margarine-drenched mashed potatoes and canned cream corn.
If I were to consider buying city chicken today, I guarantee you I’d be in the grocery aisle for 10 minutes examining the list of ingredients, fat/sodium content and whether or not the responsible animal was humanely raised and killed. Then I’d probably put it back in the case because you just can’t be sure these days. Back home I’d search on “city chicken humane E. coli FDA” to see if it was medically and ethically OK to eat.
Which is all well and good. Recently I actually did do a search on an organic chicken brand to see if it was as humanely and safely raised/killed as it claimed. Advised otherwise by an organic food-business friend, I am now eating an Amish variety. Surely they wouldn’t lie to me.
But even though I feel slightly better about my chicken now, it’s a pitifully small gain. What about the 500 pounds of cereal I eat each year, based on not much more than a Seinfeldian preference for grains shaped like an “o”? What about that non-fat French vanilla creamer I dump into my coffee each morning? When I look at how it hardens on a spoon, I can hardly be confident in what it’s doing to my stomach.
And what about the salmon I fix Andrea for Sunday dinner? I always buy “wild-caught” because “farm-raised” sounds like it came from a swamp. But when they’re being wild-caught, how many innocent fish are being killed, and how many more salmon can spawn until they’re all gone? Wouldn’t it be more ecologically responsible to eat the swamp-raised ones?
And the eggs! Oh heavens, the eggs. Used to be they were the source of all heart attacks. Now supposedly you can eat all you want – just as long as they’re from free-range, uncaged, vegetarian-fed chickens who get nights off to meditate. And soybeans! Back when Adele Davis was pushing brown rice and tofu, soybeans would save the world along with rock ‘n’ roll and communal living. Now they’re just another baddy of the corporate-GMO complex, and could cause you to break out in acne.
I am not pro-GMO, mind you (that’s genetically modified organisms, which sounds much creepier than GMO). The government just approved a kind of genetically-modified apple that prevents browning when sliced or bruised. Really? I wonder how much money went into developing this apple, and then for government researchers to study it, when all I do is slice off the brown part. End of story.
And oh by the way, now a national dietary advisory panel reports that cholesterol-high food being bad for the heart is a myth, and that what we really need to worry about is too much sugar (i.e., the French vanilla creamer). Except that critics call their
recommendations “a farce” and that if we follow them we will die. Nice. I’m sure that with enough time online I can figure out who’s right.
But yes, I really am eating better now that Andrea has educated me to the virtues of organics and the evils of GMOs. Still. Eating was a lot more fun when I didn’t have to weigh the non-GMO, gluten-free, soy-free, really and truly organic factors against the other consideration: Does it taste good?
Ah well. City chicken sure tasted good while it lasted.