We started about 11 a.m., ate continuously for about 90 minutes, took a short break, and kept going until after 2 p.m. Even in the poultry capital of the world, that's a lot of chicken to eat.

How I came be to be eating chicken in a room full of strangers is that a friend of mine, who happened to be one of the organizers of the 4th Annual Spring Chicken Festival, asked if I'd like to be a judge for the cook-off.

I readily agreed. It sounded like a fun way to spend a Saturday. I try to be civic minded, so I like helping out when I'm asked. Plus, I figured that being a judge of a chicken contest meant I'd get to eat a lot of chicken, which meant that would be a least one meal I didn't have to cook for myself.

What I didn't realize was how much chicken eating it involved. And it was just chicken. Nary a serving of mashed potatoes or cole slaw or baked beans in sight, which was a shame because what would have made a couple of entries perfect was a side of potato salad and a cold Budweiser.

Just chicken and water to, as they say, clean the palate.

After a while, I began to feel like Bubba Blue, Forrest Gump's friend from Bayou La Batre, Ala., who knew every way possible to prepare shrimp. At the contest we had fried chicken, smoked chicken, barbecued chicken, chicken wings, chicken teriyaki, chicken and rice, and a couple of chicken dishes the name of which I didn't know. But you get the point. Chicken as far as the eye could see.

We had three categories to judge: chicken wings (fried, smoked or grilled), chicken (barbequed, smoked or grilled) and specialty chicken, which apparently is chicken that doesn't fit into one of the other two categories. Nearly all of the dishes were good. Some of them were outstanding.

A couple of the entries in the wings category were so large that I wished I had seen the chickens before they were plucked, cut up, battered and fried. I had read the story in our paper last week about how scientists think chickens are descended from dinosaurs, and a couple of these wings seemed to provide all the proof I need to believe it's true.

I suspect being the judge of a cooking competition is like being a nymphomaniac. The first couple of hours is a blast.

By the time we entered our third hour, I had seen just about all the chicken I wanted to see. By the time the last entry was served, I was hoping the next person through the door was bringing us a packet of Alka-Seltzer.

But it was fun. Saturday was a beautiful spring day. The rain that had been forecast for the morning never materialized, and the temperature stayed in the 70s with a light breeze.

Hundreds descended on Roosevelt Square in downtown Gainesville to partake in the festival that celebrates our city's best known commodity. More than a few people wore chicken hats. At least two people wore chicken costumes. I wore a golf shirt and khakis. My chicken suit was at the cleaners.

Of course, the people who show up for the event get to eat a lot of chicken, too. It's a chance to take in a public sampling of the chicken cooked on site some very creative cooks. Folks seemed to be enjoying themselves, and I suspect more than a few walked away feeling as bloated as I did.

Organizers should be proud of the event. It seemed to come off without a hitch. Of course, there were a couple of things I thought could have made it easier for the judges.

Get rid of the plastic forks and knives. They say it's against the law in Gainesville to eat chicken with anything but your hands, and I suspect that became a law because of plastic forks and knives.

Even on the tenderest piece of chicken, the fork was little use. And I doubt the knife could cut water.

Barbecued chicken, like barbecued ribs, are messy. The cleanest way to eat them is to stand naked in your shower. Since that's not an option if you're a judge, we need wet towels or something similar. Before we took a break to wash our hands, we were sticking to everything.

Those are minor things, though. All in all, I had a fun time. The event was great. The food was delicious. I made some new friends among the other judges, and I hope they ask me again next year. But it's going to be a while before I want to look another piece of chicken in the face, I guarantee you that.

Dinner tonight - if I even bother - is probably going to be a lovely salad.

Mitch Clarke is executive editor of The Times. His column appears Sundays in The Times. Read previous columns at gainesvilletimes.com. Originally published April 27, 2008.