I learned how to cut up a raw chicken 27 years ago by watching Martha Stewart on TV.

I spread waxed paper on the table and grabbed a kitchen knife,
The wrong kind, of course.
How was I to know the difference between a butcher knife, a paring knife, a steak knife, or any other kind of knife?

I watched Martha gracefully slice through the chicken,
Cutting easily through the bones
Without even getting any on her blouse.

I was a mess,
Sawing through the fowl thing like an untrained laborer cutting a log with a dull saw,
Chicken blood and muck spread all over me.

After the show was over and Martha declared her chicken a “good thing,”
My chicken didn’t look like her chicken.
My coffee table didn’t look like her kitchen counter.
And I didn’t look like Martha.

I cried.

Then I cooked the chicken and cleaned up my mess.
I put on clean clothes and makeup and did my hair.

When my husband came home I served him the chicken,
And he loved it.

I smiled.
I felt like Martha Stewart.