I have recently taken an odd interest in the excessive number of cluck joints around town.

You have the pleasure filled chicken churches with bumper to bumper drive thru lanes spilling out into traffic. There are the all-you-can-sauce sports spots with feathers flying out of the windows. They are raising hell, staying slim and crispy, all while we ask these poor plucks to lay more than one egg a day before we smother them in Ranch. Can we give the breast a rest, already? I am entirely spatchcocked. And also Vegan, At Times. Hence the feeling of spatchcockery. Please don’t check my grammatical accuracy on this. I am still scarred from diagramming sentences and identifying dangling participles in elementary school. Fairly confident this is not Merriam-Webster approved.

By now you may have a little panic alarm going off in your head. The language! *giggle* I dare you to say spatchcock out loud 5 times in a row. You have now smacked up, flipped, and rubbed down a pornographic piece of poultry. Life is best lived outside of your comfort zone, people.

A few days before Thanksgiving, I walked into a local coffee shop a few blocks from my loft in the heart of downtown. A brisk and cloudy morning, the smell of caffeine cocaine brimming in the air. Inside sat a few digital nomads – straightening messy buns and brushing crumbs off cardigans for their next virtual call. A retiree or two, unfussed about getting the worms. And to my left, two familiar friends from the neighborhood. We will call them Bartles and James.

If you live in St. Louis, you may have already dropped your handle of afternoon gas or spit out your sandwich at the plausibility of decent human life ‘downtown’. That garbage dumpster fire collection of empty buildings, wild west gun fire, and an intermittent sea of red in the summer. Contrary to perceived popular opinion, there is life downtown. It is actually breathing. We may have recently come off of life support and are re-learning the art of fine motor skills, but we are here. And ready for the rebirth. I digress.

Back to the wine coolers.

Bartles and James were talking somewhat officiously, with the playful body language of two young men detailing the previous night’s escapades. Bartles is never without a cigarette or cup of coffee. Always an opinion or an inside scoop to share. James speaks with a voice made for entertaining; delights at the tango of intellectual banter.

Oat milk latte! The barista called my order. Promptly whipping out my nut milk hippie card for verification. I ain’t mad about it.

Looking up, I caught their eyes.

I thought that was you! James smiled.

I smiled back and said, So this is the new coffee spot, eh?

Bartles had retired from his longstanding coffee shop a while back, leaving downtown’s former Central Perk a constant moving target. Where there was legit java and outdoor seating, you could find these two and a handful of other ‘regulars’ from all walks of life. Gathering to tell tales, debate and lament the issues, laugh and smoke. Rinse and repeat. Refer back to the concept of ‘life’ downtown. Not only is there life, it is actually quite intelligent.

We quickly went into the holiday pleasantries. They were having a Friendsgiving gathering, and James was cooking the turkey.

Are you brining it? This is the small talk that has come out of my mouth in every pre-Thanksgiving conversation that I have ever had. In my entire adult life. Thank you, Ina.

I bet you’re brining it. I said without hesitation.

No.

You’re frying it! I said, feeling clever.

Noooooo. James’s grin crinkled and he knew he had me in the precise spot he wanted to land his plane.

My hamster wheel of a brain stopped when all I heard him say was SPATCHCOCK.

Spatchcock? I felt hot, uncomfortable, and curious all at once. Nonplussed. We are talking about a turkey, right? There was no hiding the flush on my face or the absence of any quizzical quip.

His eyes were alight with my captive audience. Instantly knowing that I had absolutely no idea what that strange word meant. We did a brief cat and mouse until it was explained that spatchcock was not only a fun word to interpolate into a conversation, it was a revolutionary, if not very obvious way to cook a finger lickin’ good turkey. Dr. Google technically defines spatchcock as ‘a chicken or game bird split open and grilled’. Dr. Google also defines the slang meaning ‘in this figurative sense is indeed mainly British. It means to stuff things together inappropriately.’ Leave it to the Brits. Inappropriate indeed!

Okay, so now I know you guys aren’t filming a porno at your Friendsgiving, I thought.

Relief and laughter slammed into each other.

An accomplished chef, James went on to tell me in great detail about the cutting of the backbone, the cracking of the wishbone, the tucking of the wings, the basting, and the drastically reduced cooking time. Culminating in the perfectly prepared bird. I reflected quickly on all of the bags of freezer burned breasts I had begged to behave over the years.

Bartles grinned and pulled on his coffee, likely wishing it was a cigarette. He was hosting and it was going to be a full house. Transplants and lifers, old dogs and dreamers.

Downtown is alive.

And well.