Oh dear Finders I hope the holiday was kind to you. I took my own advice and ate all kinds of things I say are good for me (medical expertise aside)…

But the tale today is about what I didn’t eat: poultry. Neil and I planned a very quiet Christmas at home, lots of lounging in fleece and flannel, biding our time until the Downton Abbey Christmas special aired. And can I just say the DA writers are trying to kill me, talk about thickening the plot. I’ll say no more for fear of the collective screaming and covering of eyes that have yet to see Season 3.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand—birds. We thought while a turkey was overkill for dinner for deux, a roast chicken seemed just the thing for our first Swissmas. We set off to the grocery store, and, as with every purchase here in the land of luxury, we carefully checked the prices before making any commitments.

We’ve already had our share of Swiss sticker shock, but nothing could have prepared us for this one: $67 bucks. For a chicken. Not some Guinness Book of World Records gold plated piece of poultry now, with maybe a Rolex watch hidden in the cavity. Just an average chicken. Well, I never. And turkeys, well, at $17.50 a kilo, who wouldn’t be gobble-smacked by that.

We moved on only to find beef going for the low, low price of $89.50 a kilo and scallops at a rock bottom $75 a kilo. “I’ll have the surf and turf with a side of bankruptcy please.” It is beyond me how average people feed families with 4 and 5 kids here, more support for my fruitless loins.

The good news is the larger stores have regular sales offering as much as 40% off. Otherwise we’d have to become strict vegetarians or starve to death, same thing. We can usually find some affordable salmon or cod and, oddly enough, cheap chicken legs (turns out the whole really is greater than the sum of its parts).

The next step is to tip over the border into France, a mere 40 minutes away, where food prices somehow miraculously morph into something approaching reality. All we have to do is get through customs with a few kilos of beef in Neil’s pants and a free-range roaster stuffed up my shirt. Classy.