It was like fear factor you guys.

So just for the record, I am probably never making the roast chicken in the crockpot recipe ever again. Those who know me well know I hate handling raw chicken meat. A whole chicken?? ::heart palpitations:: 

This was awful. I was going to make a post with just the recipe, but I realized the experience I had making it was worthy of its own post. When I set out to make this, i didnt really *think* about what id have to do. I just thought about how delicious it sounded and how much Wes wanted it. That was probably my first mistake. 

So I go to the store to get my whole chicken, and even though it's encased in thick plastic, it feels squishy and that makes me a little uncomfortable. I wrapped it in a plastic bag and put it in my cart. Right about here is where warning bells should have started going off in my head. But no. Still thinking about how yummy it's going to be. 

I come home and read the recipe again and start to panic just a little bit. I'm staring at this chicken and the whole task suddenly feels so daunting. This would be a really good form of torture for a germaphobe.  Which I'm not.

Really. 

Ok, maybe a little. 

I get my spices together and start mixing them up and realize this recipe calls for an awful lot of salt, and I think it's too much, but it's kind of too late since its already in the mixture. So I add some extras of all the others. I screw up and a lid pops off of the onion powder and way more goes in than I'd like, and I start freaking out. And I know it's because I have to deal with the damn chicken in a minute and I'm flipping the hell out inside about it. 

So the spices are done, and now comes the hard part for me. Imagine that Beethovens 5th is playing in the background. Or the Jaws theme song. Or any other song where you know something really unpleasant is coming. 

So I go to the sink and wash my hands and cut off the plastic. 

I am now holding the slippery slimy chicken. And omg, it totally looks like a chicken. Which it should, because it is, but you know what I mean right? It's got wings and legs and everything and all of a sudden, it's no longer food to me, it's a dead chicken. In my hands. 

I had to set the chicken down and give myself a minute. Or 5. 

 And is that chuckling i hear in the living room? Surely my husband is not laughing at me. 

I wash my hands again. Operating room style. Because really, salmonella y'all. 

Wesley walks into the kitchen and that's when I realize all the "omg, this is so gross...omg...dead chicken...blech..omg.." is not actually being said in my head, id been saying it out loud. 

Fortunately he walked in at exactly the right time because I flipped the chicken upside down to get out some of the water inside and OHMYGOD the freaking neck fell out. I don't think I could have handed (thrown?) Wes that chicken any faster than I did. 

I moved to the opposite counter and put my head down and just tried to breathe it out.  

Now mind you, I've had broken bones. I've seen bones protruding skin, hell..I had a Cesarean section. Nothing gets me like raw chicken meat. Especially when parts of said chicken are falling out of the inside of its body.  I simultaneously wanted to cry AND throw up. As if that wasnt bad enough, i hear a plop and Wes said "oh, look, there the liver.." ::blech:: another 5 second time out for me. 

He finishes washing the chicken for me and I wash my hands. Again. 

So then it came time to rub the spices all over the chicken. No biggie right? The hard part is over right? Yeah. Except by this time I've practically named my dead chicken and its whole little chicken life has flashed before my eyes. It was something akin to Cinderella spreading out the chicken feed for all her little chickies while singing a lovely song. Unassuming little chickens just going about their day. Although I'm sure those died too. I can't imagine they kept chickens just for fun. 

Back to Esmerelda..I mean, my whole chicken.  I was doing pretty well with rubbing the spices all over it at first. It was like giving it a chicken massage. I think I tried to make it easier by pretending I was giving it a little chicken bath. ::let's lift your little wing Esme, gotta get under there too...::

I swear, the sniffing Wes heard was because I was smelling the spice mixture and it was burning my nose. Like when you cut an onion. Only it was mostly Cayenne pepper. I wasnt crying.

Much.  

Then, the second dreaded part came. I had to put the spices IN the chicken.  I stood there for about 30 seconds trying to figure out how to get the spices in without actually reaching my hand in there. I look inside to see how I can manage it, and i see  little  Esmerelda's ribs. Time out again. I go wash my hands. Again. 

Deep breaths. 

I think at this point Wes was just openly laughing at me from the living room. I'm pretty sure I even said "are

you laughing at me?" and he just responded "Yep." Aww, my supportive husband. 

So I go back to spicing the insides. Or thinking about it at least. Can I just put the spices in there with a small spatula and try to coat the inside using the utensil? Can I just toss some spice in there and hope for the best? When I said this one out loud I heard "No Heather. You have to stick your hand in there and rub it all in. It'll be fine. Just do it." 

Oh. Goody. 

After some deep breaths, and washing my hands for the 8th time, I finally managed to get some spices in there, and tried to ignore the fact that myhand was inside of a freaking chicken. 

Have I mentioned I don't like handling raw chicken?? 

So I get it all in there and finally, IM DONE! I want to throw a ticker tape parade because it's over. Only I had no confetti, and the baby was sleeping. So I settled for washing my hands again. 

I put the plastic wrap over the dish and stuck the chicken in the fridge to sit and marinate overnight and have tried not to look at it when going into the fridge since. 

So it's safe to say that if we have this dish again, Wesley will be prepping the chicken. I did it once, and have no desire to do it again. 

I have also completely changed my mind about hosting Thanksgiving at our house this year. It's just not gonna happen.