After spending almost $5 for a piece of pie at Katy’s Pantry to compensate for using their bathroom, I drove to the grocery store where I bought a $6 chicken.

An entire chicken.

That was after I saw it cost more than double that for a whole cut-up chicken.

That hen hung out in the fridge for a few hours while I rested on the couch.

When I went for a fresh Dr. Pepper and saw the bird I knew I should cut it up, and boil it for chicken and noodles the next day.

It had been years since I’d dissected a chicken, and had trouble locating the best knife for the job.

I couldn’t find the boning knife I used to use, so I tried a butcher knife. It might have cut butter, but not a chicken leg and thigh, so I brandished a bigger one that resembled a machete.

It worked better, but I feared an ER run was in my future if I wasn’t careful.

The legs, thighs and wings came off without a hitch after I took the neck, liver and heart out of the cavity.

The gizzard never showed up, and I played a game of counter slip and slide trying to wrestle the back off. Then the slaughter began: That chicken slid off the cutting board and onto the counter as blood squirted out of its breast bone. It looked like a TV surgery gone wrong.

Finally I rinsed it off the white meat pieces and put them in a pot of cold water with the rest of its appendages, and turned on the back burner.

I ignored my 30-minute timer for a few minutes then got up to deal with the bird again, and again, and again. It was one big bird and took longer to cook. Then I had to watch an hour-long TV show before that sucker got cooled enough to debone and in the fridge for the next day.

Some of you might think, “Boo-hoo, poor baby!” since I didn’t have go out and catch the chicken, kill it, dunk it in boiling water, pluck its feathers, cut it up then bring in more wood (after I cut it) for the cook stove.

I’m an old bird but I grew up in The City, and Momma always got our chicken from Humpty Dumpty, except once. That’s when Daddy brought home two cock-a-doodle-do chickens.

We both had more respect for Momma when we saw her wring those chicken’s necks. And in my case, fear. Especially when she had those headless chickens chase me all around the back yard.

That night was probably the only time when Momma fried chicken that I didn’t fight with my sister over the pulley bone, or eat any chicken.

I have my Daddy’s sweet tooth so I’m sure I didn’t turn down a piece of Momma’s coconut cream pie. Thank goodness she’s in Heaven now because she’d be madder than an old wet hen that I paid $5 for a piece of pie last week, but she’d be pleased as a peach orchard boar to know that it didn’t hold a candle to her pies.