Last week Joyce was over for her daily computer practice when Richard, the gardener, came to the door and asked me, through Joyce, if I liked "hens." I translated "hens" as chicken and after clarifying that he was referring to eating them, not having one as a pet. I said that sure, I liked chicken.
In the back of my mind this little alarm sounded. While I like to eat chicken I do not feel the personal need to slaughter and pluck said chicken. I think I could do it. I don't have a hatchet or a machete, which would make it pretty difficult, but I know the basic process. Without going into details, let's just say I've seen my mom take a duck from the walking and talking stage to the dinner stage.
Sure enough, on Saturday, Richard shows up with a chicken--still alive. He was holding it upside down by its feet. He offered to sell it to me for 2,000 Ush, about a dollar. I told him I'd give him 5,000 shillings if he would take it and returned it dressed--as in dead and plucked.
He took the money and I will undoubtedly see the chicken one of these days--minus feathers and head.
Bry'Chell is not used to having such a close relationship with her dinner. This is very different from buying a plastic wrapped package at Jewel. However, I suspect she will entertain some of her Chicago friends with stories about food and how we get it.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
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