As I revealed in this blog, I'm a queasy cooker of meat at the best of times: "Roast chicken? Delicious. Having to acknowledge we're eating dead animals? Kind of gruesome."
For some reason I can't shake the knowledge that this mass of skin, muscle and bone before me used to belong to a sentient being. Other people are far more successful at separating troublesome thought processes from mouth-watering meals than I am.
At a guess I'd say I cook meat maybe once a month. Chicken, of course, should be my go-to species. They're just birds, for crying out loud - and not nearly as cute as lambs, as placid as cows or as pink as pigs.
Yet chicken is not top of my list of meats to cook. I bring raw chicken into the house about twice a year. And when I do, my kitchen goes into virtual lockdown. I go to extreme lengths to ensure the raw chicken does not make us ill.
I wear disposable gloves, put multiple layers of paper-towels over the bench-tops and on the chopping board. I hold the meat at arm's length. Once the offending chook is in the oven, the decontamination procedure begins. The gloves, paper-towels and Chux cloth are thrown out. The tap, sink and bench-tops are attacked with a household spray-cleaner. Any tea-towels that were in the vicinity are put straight into the washing-machine. I wash my hands several times.
It was the chicken industry itself which put the fear of chicken into me in the first place. Tegel's website says: "Cross contamination can be a major cause of food-borne illnesses. Wash and dry knives and chopping boards thoroughly in hot soapy water, and make sure cloths are rinsed frequently in hot, soapy water."