Chickening Out

Happy (belated) Thanksgiving! Ryan and I decided to celebrate Turkey Day by buying the family some chickens, and helping them cook a pseudo-Thanksgiving meal of chicken, potatoes, rice, and banana bread. There aren’t any turkeys in Haydom, so we had to settle for chickens. They are very expensive for most people here, so it was a special treat.

Relatives from the country had given them two chickens, but being Americans, and this being Thanksgiving, we decided that two chickens were definitely not enough for 17 people. We headed to the market with Lucy, one of the kids, to pick up three more. Word had gotten out that the wazungu wanted chickens, and a few steps outside of our gate we were met by people with armloads of chickens ready to sell. Lucy bargained for us, and $12 later, we were the proud owners of three live chickens.

That afternoon, we invited our friend and research assistant, Prisca, over to help us cook and to have Thanksgiving dinner. We started by making banana bread. I didn’t have a recipe, or measuring cups, or really any idea what I was doing, so I just started mixing flour, eggs, sugar, oil and bananas in a bowl. When it looked remotely like banana bread dough, I scooped it into a loaf pan, and stuck it in the oven. The ‘oven’ is a wood burning stove, with a chamber for baking, so there no telling how hot it is or if the temp is constant, so I just put it in and hoped for the best. While the bread was baking, we decided it was time to ‘deal’ with the chickens.

The family was convinced that two chickens were enough for everyone. These are scrawny, natural, African chickens, that spend their lives running around scavenging for food, not big plump American chickens who spend their lives getting fat and juicy. There was no way two chickens were enough, so we compromised and settled on three. With a parade of kids behind us, we grabbed a (rather dull) kitchen knife, and headed out back. Ryan and I had made a pact that if we were going to eat the chickens, we would each kill one, but neither one of us really knew how to go about doing it. Prisca (wearing nice shoes, a tailored dress, and perfectly braided hair) however, got right in there, and taught us to stand on the wings with one foot, their legs with the other, then grab their head and pull it back with one hand, and slit their throat with the kitchen knife, then hold it until it bled out and stopped flopping. At this point, I decided I was just going to have potatoes for dinner, and I was fine with that.

Ryan was up next, and without hesitating, positioned the chicken, and with Prisca cheering him on, started cutting. It seized, it flopped, and it bled just like it was supposed to. Two down, one to go….my turn. Ryan handed me the bloody knife, and I was on my way to vegetarianism. I begged and pleaded. I said I just wanted potatoes for dinner. I said I’d lived for 27 years having other people kill my meat for me, I didn’t see any reason to change. But Ryan, Prisca, and the kids wouldn’t back down. They were all teasing and laughing at me, and finally, my pride got the better of me, and I decided to go for it! I stood on its wings and its legs, but couldn’t bring myself to hold the head. Emanueli, one of the kids, held the head back for me, and with Ryan, Prisca, and all the kids cheering for me, I got in the zone, and cut its throat. It actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, the chicken died a rather painless death, and probably had a better life than most of the chicken I eat in the states. However, I will forever be thankful for Hy-vee and its saran-wrapped boneless skinless chicken breasts.

Turns out that killing the chickens is just the beginning of the work. Next, they are dunked in boiling water and plucked. We found out is that rubber chickens look amazingly like the real thing. Who knew? Then we seared them over the fire to burn off any remaining fluff, and we washed them, cut their necks more cleanly, and cut off their feet. Simba, the family puppy, was one lucky dog, and ended up eating all three chicken heads and some of the feet. Then he passed out, in a puppy version of the Thanksgiving turkey-coma.

When it was time to cut them up into pieces, Prisca again got right in there and started hacking. It was really more of a biology lesson for Ryan and me. We learned what eggs look like inside the chicken (they look like yolks), that the gizzard really is full of pebbles, and that unless they are American freak chickens, they don’t really have much breast meat.

That night, the family invited us over to their house, and we all sat down together for our feast. Three chickens actually make an amazing amount of meat, especially when you use ALL of them. Two chickens probably would have been enough, but three allowed it to feel like Thanksgiving, where no one worried about taking more than their share. We had broth from the chickens to put over rice, boiled potatoes, and banana brick. I forgot to put any sort of rising agent into it, so it was a bit dense. Besides being a masonry material, it was acutally pretty good. Being polite Tanzanians, they all said they loved the bread and wanted the recipe (but then they started talking in Iraqw, so who knows what they actually said about it.) At the end of the meal, we were all full and happy (tumeshiba sana).

We’re thinking about getting a goat for Christmas….
-Betsy