DIY or die

Well, DIY unless you can find someone to do it with you...

Rachel came over this morning to have a cup of coffee and discuss color palettes for my kitchen/dining room combo, which is in sore need of a design refreshment. The girl's absolutely fabulous with interiors, if I may be Frank; her apartment and other people's kitchens are testament to the fact. Her talent established and perfect shades of fresh chosen (citron, deep yellow-green, and aubergine - could you just die?), we moved on to the timetable - what task to tackle first? Rachel took exactly half a moment to decide that the 70's retro-tray ceiling needed tossing.

After months of dropping subtle hints which weren't picked up by my sister the home remodeler, we ripped that baby down this morning. Sayonara yellow plastic dinge! The pall of 1974 is lifted to reveal light, sweet light.

I haven't lifted the first can of paint yet, but I can't wait to get a pretty new Ikea table and throw a party.

You can bet your organic ass I'm going to give some conscious thought to the menu, though. A co-worker mentioned recently that commercial chickens - these are the dead kind, shrink-wrapped and chilly - live only 6 weeks before rendering flesh for American tables. I looked it up on the internet and discovered that 6 weeks is a normal lifespan for broilers, which are not fed hormones and steroids, but couldn't find a similar statement for hens, which is what I brought home from Publix yesterday before doing this intense research.

The mutant's leg bones were a midget 5" long at most, yet this baby was a fat 6 pounder. Most chickens I've seen are around 2.5 pounds, making last night's dinner el gordo in comparison. The hefty shrink-wrap devoid of soothing lingo like farm raised, free range, and never fed hormones should have tipped me off. This foul fowl must have been the recipient of a constant drip of hormones. We have a lot of leftovers - come get some!