The more my consort and I spend at Holy Foods in our neighborhood, the more I question where our souls are destined. I didn’t like watching how a well-dressed mom and daughter were treated when they came in wondering about the $2.19-a-pound Buffalo chicken wings (three words: like project trash). And I’m sure we’re paying in some other way for the too-good-to-be-real deals we get on peanut butter and antibiotic-free milk, especially once I read the WSJournal on how this is the one grocery chain in America whose profits are up as commodity prices soar (although that could make sense, given that its sales are not dependent on the fake blueberries in cereal that are clogging all other supermarkets). Still. The “air-chilled” chicken I brought home the other night when I didn’t need dinner and Bob and The Cat did was pretty fucking scary. And it was the most expensive choice in the birdcase. Not only did it smell a bit high when I slit open the plastic packaging with the days-away-from-sell-by label. The way it cooked up was heading toward “Eraserhead” territory: The breast came out mushy but still bloody at a technically underdone 165 degrees, even after resting before carving, and the leg bones splintered when I wiggled them. I know chickens sent to market these days are babies that have been force-fed, as Frank Reese the heritage turkey breeder notes. But this was almost as weird as the four hearts in the giblet bag. . .