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California, United States



I write this, alone, from a basement apartment with the juices of a properly spatchcocked chicken rolling down my chin. I simply cannot - nay, will not - accept a boring existence outside of the spatchcock lifestyle.
Heed my cautionary tale.
As I ripped the backbone out of this flightless bird and smashed its pelvis into flat submission with my fist, I had no idea what this revelation would do to me.
For I could never eat any other chicken again. I demanded that all chicken be as absurdly juicy and perfectly cooked as a spatchcocked bird. I accepted nothing less than the tender, perfectly mouthwatering meat of a dead, spineless, spatchcocked hen.