Black Chicken Soup for the Soul
Shopping at my neighborhood Asian grocery store is like visiting a zoo. I
have to look my food in the eye before I have it killed. I point at what I
want and use crude sign language to communicate my choice to the butcher.
This charade ends when he bloodies his knife on my dinner and hands me a
pristine white paper package. The fruits vegetables at my store have names
that I can't pronounce, but at least they're not moving.

I pass the fish tanks today not having enough energy to order an execution. I
quickly decide that cow brains and pig's pancreas don't sound at all
appetizing. Most of the time I enjoy demystifying the exotic nature of my
grocery store, but today I'm feeling the ill effects of an unwanted virus.

My culinary education is superseded by the need for comfort food. The only
thing that sounds good to me today is homemade chicken soup. I pass by
unappetizing packages of chicken's feet, livers, gizzards and backs until
finally I spy whole chickens. Nesting next to the mountain of Foster Farm fry
ers are a few black chickens.

Knowing that I need powerful medicine to overcome the viral invasion, I
ignore the high price of the black chickens and toss one in my basket. I have
no clue as to why they're black, and I hope that I'm not violating any
cultural taboos.

The check-out lady doesn't laugh or sneer as she rings up my black chicken.
Not like the time I tried to buy a package of phony Chinese money before
being told that it was meant to be burned as a funerary offering to the dead.
Oops!

Upon returning home, my computer tells me that my black chicken is called a
"silkie" bantam because of the construction of its feathers, which lack the
usual forms of webs to give the appearance of down or silky hair. I also
discover that they are prized for their gentle barnyard nature, but I find NO
recipes for black chicken soup.

I'm stumped and not at all hungry, and beginning to feel sorry for this once
beautiful, passive bird. I free him from his plastic packaging and an odd
odor fills the room. He smells like a cross between sandalwood incense and
Nyquil cough syrup. I'm surprised when I discover that my black chicken is
"complete." He still has his feet, head and ... eyes.

I notice that his throat has been slit. When I pick him up his head dangles
loosely. My dinner is becoming a sadistic science project, and I fear that I
am a fascinated vivisectionist. I decide to put off the cooking by scanning
him into my computer. Then -- just maybe -- I will be able to plunge him
quickly into a hot water bath with some vegetables whose names I cannot
pronounce. At this point, I'm wondering if I really am higher on the food
chain than this unfortunate creature.

After irradiating him with hot computer scanner light rays, I just can't cook
him. It seems too cruel. He's sitting inside my refrigerator, next to the
vegetables whose names I must learn, and a dozen of his unborn relatives.
My black chicken soup has become a metaphysical feast for one.

Lately the constant stress and struggle of the hunt, capture, and kill, are
just too much for me. I get indigestion. Can it be that I'm destined to be a
Gatherer rather than a Hunter? Or that I used to be Hunter, but I've changed
into Forager, preferring now to "collect" my food, rather than "slay" it?

I don't know what to do with the black chicken in my refrigerator. He seems
to have fed me already. I'm thinking about how I assimilate all the
experiences of my life and distill their wisdom to feed and refine my inner
self. I guess some days we all feel a little like dinner.

 
      ***Black Chicken Soup for the Soul***

Chapter 1 - Never make friends with dinner

Chapter 2 - Some days you kill dinner

Chapter 3 - Some days you ARE dinner

Chapter 4 - Vegetarian diets are highly underrated
 

Copyright © 2002 Susan Mountain.