Chicken soup for the soul

Whenever I used to think of chicken soup, two things would always come to mind. One was the Campbell’s soup commercials where the snowman would come inside from the cold, and the bowl of chicken soup would melt him away into a little boy. The other is that damn book that was a lovely idea at first, but then it got so extreme I think they even came out with one called ¨Chicken soup for the dog’s soul.¨ Dogs don’t even have souls. Shows how much they know.

Last Sunday my whole idea of chicken soup changed entirely. (warning, if you are a vegetarian, you may not want to read further). I got up at the break of dawn, excited for the day that lied ahead. I ate a quick breakfast, bathed, and changed, then headed off towards a friend’s house. Today we were going to run an errand together. A special errand.

I got to the house, early of course, and waited anxiously as she finished making tortillas and breakfast for her family. When we finally left, she told me that to get to the person’s house we were going to, it would be quicker and better to go through the farm instead of on the main road. I agreed, but later regretted the decision, as I stomped through the farm, climbing on top of big rocks and getting scraped by thorns along the way. We finally arrived at the house after stopping at a few others to visit and drink coffee along the way. While we were there drinking yet another cup of coffee, I watched as the woman searched through the herd of young ripe chickens, and picked up the chosen one out of the dozens of others. She then tied his legs together so he wouldn’t get away, and handed it to my friend, who stuffed it into her bag. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor guy, wondering if he knew his fate that lied ahead. I looked into his eyes, trying to find some hint of fear or sadness. For a moment I thought I saw a tear, but quickly realized it was just the sun glimmering off the white of his eye.

When we arrived back at her house about 2 hours later, we were ready to make the soup. She started the fire and put a large pot of water over it to boil. ¨I want to see how you kill the chicken.¨ I said, wondering if I would regret it later. At that moment, I saw her son walking out towards the back of the house with the chicken in his hands. It was time. She took a kitchen knife in her hand and headed out behind him. He handed her the chicken, and she positioned his feet under one of hers, and grabbed the head with her hands and began to saw it off. It was at this moment when I wondered if I shouldn’t just become vegetarian for the rest of my life. I pondered it while she struggled to get the head off, then as I watched the son take the knife and hack it with one big whack. And I kept pondering it while trying to keep a straight face as I watched the poor chicken die before my eyes. The same chicken she had carried on her back up the hill through the farm. The same chicken she had been petting while chatting with the neighbors and drinking, that’s right, another cup of coffee.

The next step was easier. Plucking it. She stuck him in a pot of boiling water, and to my surprise, the feather just started shedding. She told me in order to learn I had to help her. So hesitantly, I reached my hand in there and started plucking. The more we plucked, the more it looked like something I would buy in a supermarket, and the more assured I became that I could eat meat once again. The only thing was I had to keep dodging his head bobbing from side to side that they hadn’t yet cut off completely. After the plucking came the gutting. As she cut him open at the end, I was surprised to find organs spilling out onto the table. I almost just expected him to be empty, like the turkeys we stuff for Thanksgiving. She picked through the organs, telling me which ones we could leave in there, and which ones we couldn’t. After we finished gutting him, she cut him up into pieces, and he was ready to cook. About an hour later, she spooned out a bowl of hot, fresh chicken soup for me. As I spooned each bite into my mouth, I quickly forgot about the fact that I knew this chicken, and that I had seen him running around happily with his brothers and sisters only this morning. It was delicious. The flavor of fresh chicken is so much richer, fuller than the chicken you buy at the supermarkets. And the meat has an entirely different texture. I would like to see Campbell’s try to imitate this flavor! .