One of those times was the other day. Kimmie and I set out to the village in search of a delicious chicken. This isn’t our first meat breakdown; it happens every so often. We always spend at least a day asking anyone and everyone if we could please, please, please just buy a chicken from them. Normally everyone tells us, “Absolutely!” but then never come with the chicken.
But Sunday—a glorious, glorious day—was different.
Somehow, Mary’s father was happy to relinquish one of his flock.
I helped the boys chase the silly thing all around the village. Seriously, it was hilarious. I nearly took out my eye on a bamboo pole sticking out of a thatched roof.
That thing did not want to become dinner.
But, low and behold, Oseta finally snatched it up. (Interesting note: Oseta is one of our favorite P7 kids. His name means “vomit.” And I guess here, that’s OK.) I carried the thing home—by its legs—triumphantly and was still searching for a sharp knife when the boys called and said Oseta had already taken care of it.
It’s a good thing, too. Kim says when you slaughter a chicken, you cross some imaginary threshold which you can never come back across. You’re just… different. And we both have this irrational fear that if we become too independent, God will decide we don’t need husbands and pass us by… So, a double thank you to Oseta.
Anyway, Susanna came and helped me pluck and gut the thing. It was an all-around not terrible experience.
And we were two very happy women at dinner that night. :)
No comments:
Post a Comment