I rise from a corpse of poultry. Cold steel flays the fat off of me. Yellow yoke bathes me, before immersion in flour and breadcrumbs completes me.

I first face the fire in a vat of boiling oil. Every impurity scourged from me, my texture a golden brown, warm marinara sauce pours upon me. The mozzorella cheese then placed upon my back, I return to the fires.

All to grace the plate laid on an outbound stainless steel shelf. Where a server will swipe me toward the world beyond the kitchen of my birth.

To fulfill my destiny as your chosen meal.

clanking glasses

pouring out another

bottle of red