The Chicken Run again

Tomorrow, we’re heading to Yaounde, the capital city of Cameroon, to meet with other BGC missionaries for an annual gathering. There will be business meetings and plenty of free time. We’re hoping to visit a Western-style coffee shop to drink lattes and espressos. We’ve also heard rumors that we’ll be able to buy burritos somewhere, and visit a Japanese buffet. And of course, there will be the consumption of many candy bars. It should be great! If you think of it, please pray for traveling mercies and for this getaway to be a time of refreshment and renewal. There will only be two weeks of classes left in the semester when we return next week, and we want to finish well.



Above, you see a picture of a chicken that we ate a couple of weeks ago. Except we didn’t just eat it—Charlie and I plucked it (as we’re about to do in the picture). And we didn’t just pluck it—Charlie held down its talons while pinned its head with one hand and slit its neck with the other. And I didn’t just slit its neck—I had to slice over and over again, over a dozen times, until I had even pierced its skin. The knife was not sharp at all, and the chicken’s neck skin was hardly taut. We got ‘er done, though. And if you’re cringing now, imagine how I felt. The chicken stared me straight in the eye for an eternal thirty-seconds before it entered the big sleep.

After killing it, we boiled the chicken in water to loosen the feathers. Then Charlie and I began to pluck it; we grabbed a couple feathers at a time, pulling them cautiously and daintily. In response, Pa (our cook) pushed us aside and began manhandling the chicken, swiping handfuls of feathers in violent, efficient motions. We felt pretty American; it was a poultry effort.