The Chicken Who Wanted to Be in the Soup

The Chicken Who Wanted to Be in the Soup

Howdy, I'm Cluckworth, and indeed, I'm a chicken. You're probably thinking about how I am writing this, but just trust me, our chickens have our ways. Anyway, that is not important now. What's important is that I, Cluckworth, have a dream. A scrumptious, savory dream. I want to be in the soup. Yeah, you heard me right, soup. Plus, some soup, but the most gourmet, five-star chicken soup the world has ever tasted. Now, before you start cracking up in horror, let me explain. For my whole life, I have heard alarming stories about chickens being converted into food. "Oh no, the pot is coming for us!" "Run! The farmer's holding a knife!" Typical chicken fear, right? Not me. I was curious from day one. As the vast array of diverse chickens retreated at the mere threat of "chicken dinner," I found myself curious. That is to say, come on, if you are leaving, why leave in defeat? Be remembered, be savored!

Instead of running away, I thought, why not *run towards* the pot?

So my search for the most legendary chicken ever made in a soup, as far as the eye could see, began. Not about flavor or tenderness, no, it was about legacy.

One morning, bright and early at the ranch, it began. Rancher Bazil, a young man at 22 with an addiction to chicken dishes (for goodness' sake, this one eat chicken like it is going out of style), walked into the coop, talking to himself about an upcoming big family dinner that he was planning to do, and my little pecking ears picked it all up when I heard that magic word: "chicken soup."

The others around me squawked in terror. My neighbor in the coop, Henrietta, nearly had a full-blown panic attack. "Cluckworth, did you hear that? Soup! We're doomed!" But I was serene. This was my moment. My *fate*. I strutted over to Henrietta, keeping my feathers as smooth as could be. Presentation is everything when you want to be soup-worthy, after all.

Henrietta, "I said, "I think you're missing' something." Soup's not the end—it's *the* start. Startin' big!" Henrietta looked at me as though I'd laid a square egg. "Cluckworth, you've got totally cracked. Soup is *the* actual end! The *stop of the line* train! I puffed up my chest, the weight of my destiny resting on me. "Not for me. I will be the star of that soup. People will talk about my flavor for years to come. I'll be a legend." Henrietta groaned. "This is why no one invites you to scratch the dirt with us anymore.".

But I did not care. I had a mission. Meanwhile, the other chickens pecked day after day at the dust, whereas I trained to make my legs strong—just in case I became a brothy chicken—since a good leg should make the best broth and you would not want a slouchy chicken as a soup. I ate more herbs and spices; why not flavor myself on the inside? One day, doing my usual stretches of wing-down dog, very relaxing, Farmer Bazil strode into the coop, a gleam in his eye. It was that sort of day, I think. I had a premonition that it might be so in my bones (which were destined, by the way, to make a fine stock). Bazil eyed us about, as though he were casting his eye upon which lucky bird he was going to choose. I strode forward to him without hesitation. "Sir," I clucked, "you're looking at your star ingredient. And to him, it would probably have sounded like, "Bawk bawk bawk bawk," but to me, I was *very* eloquent in my head. I channeled the spirit of all the great chickens who came before me. And already I could see: the pot, the vegetables, the aroma rising to the air. Me floating elegantly in the soup like a hero in his final act.

Bazil blinked at me and grunted something about me being a "plump little fella," which I construed as a compliment. Grinning, he bent over and scooped me up. Henrietta gasped. "Cluckworth! What are you doing?!"

But I was too busy luxuriating in my imminent soup stardom to pay much attention. "Sit back and relax, Henrietta," I said behind me. "I am going to be famous!"

As Bazil brought me to the house, I sensed excitement coursing through veins. This was happening; I was to fulfill destiny. The kitchen smelled sweet: herbs, garlic, and... Oh my, thyme! Here was my perfect match with that.

Bazil put me on the counter beside a monstrous, glistening cauldron. I peeked over the edge to watch as the water began to boil. This was it—the soup! The final transmutation! I would be *chicken soup*, the most exalted dish of all! But as I looked into that pot, something strange began to happen. For the first time, I felt a little uneasy. Was this really what I wanted? To float around with carrots and celery? Was I really ready to become a broth?

Bazil scooped up some salt and started humming. I turned back toward the pot again. Ahh. Maybe soup isn't all that glamorous, I thought. I mean, yeah, sure, it is being soup after all, but. Well, it's soup. I'd never get people saying, "That person, oh, he or she was a masterpiece." over the phone as they slid into their office chairs or around the dinner table to slurp me up.

I started to think I probably couldn't even do it. Could I really be doing this? What if I just stink at soup? Was I, in fact, just a mediocre person?

And then it hit me. A terrible mistake. I didn't want to be soup! I wanted to live! Carry on being the fabulous, charismatic chicken that I am! Forget soup; maybe I could be a salad topper or something like that! Or one of those roast chickens with all the lemons stuffed into. Wait, nope, that's still a food item. Maybe I could just, you know, *live*? I couldn't shift gears again, though, when Bazil grabbed a big ladle. My heart—or whatever part of me was panicking—skipped a beat. I had to get out of there, pronto. In one heroic flap, I knocked over the bowl of herbs, thyme and parsley flying in all directions. Bazil leapt backward, startled. Jumping all over my opportunity, I jumped off the counter, wings fluttering angrily, and made a scramble for the entryway. Bazil, canvassed in flour and spices, checked out at me with skepticism. "Hey! Get back here, you crazy chicken!" Anyway, I had gone that far out of the door, running like I had never run my life before. Outside was Henrietta against the tree, and smugness epitomized. I said so. She clucked, "Soup? C'mon." I puffed myself up into best-cool that I can get, cool. "Changed my mind. Soup is overrated." "Whatever, sure," Henrietta said through her still giggles, "Chicken nuggets?" I glared at her. "Do not even do that, Helena.

And so, Cluckworth the chicken, who could easily have been soup-headed, strut into the coop as she walked with a whole new appreciation for life. After

all, soup might just be off the menu for this fowl after all. Something would come along and an egg business or even perhaps a podcast. But the point is that someone else's dinner certainly not anytime soon. undefined The End.