While in Paris last week, adiposity I took a cooking class with Marie-Blanche and I was the only student that day.  We were making chicken with a raspberry vinegar sauce and butchering the chicken.  It didn’t look like our chickens.  It was scrawny and had black scales showing where feet had been chopped off at the shins.  Somehow they hide that part from us in the U.S.  Inside the bird were the extras, approved and she was lecturing me: this is the gizzard, treatment this is the liver, this is the heart.  “I do not know if you are a heart eater,” she said.  Not sure what was “cool” I told her that I had eaten hearts before, but it wasn’t something I found particularly enjoyable.  “Here in France, we do not eat the heart.  We are too sentimental.  Perhaps he has loved another chicken with this heart?”