If you’re from the Northeast, you are undoubtedly familiar with the autumnal ritual of apple picking. It plays out exactly the same every single year ... September hits and everyone starts frantically planning with their friends: “What weekend are we gonna go apple picking?! We have to choose a weekend before all the apples are gone!”
Then we all select the same weekend, and we all descend upon the same five orchards, and it’s always crowded and miserable and all the Fuji are gone and we’re left with Macintoshes like a bunch of nards. Then we pluck 20 pounds of apples and talk a big game about all the fancy desserts we’re gonna make, only to lose all motivation and watch the apples rot away in our fridges, untouched.
So ... yeah. The bar for “being good at apple picking” is pretty low. And yet this hen is somehow worse than all of us combined. Don’t worry, ol’ chicken—you tried your best! And honestly, you’d never wind up baking that tartine anyway!
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