Forensic Kitchen

So, I made chicken soup the other day.  I boiled the bones and skin of the bird and then fished out all such carcass related parts and put them into a colander in the sink.  About a half an hour later, Craig came by and saw the skeletal remains. 

"Who was it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Was it one of the biddy hens?"
"Oh,no.  It was a store hen."
"Oh."

I love the fact that that question was even asked.  That the food in my house has a good likelihood of having had a name and a face that we knew and loved before it made it's way to our plates.  That it would have been harvested humanely, plucked by hand, cleaned gently and carefully and prepared with love. 

Isn't that the way it should be?