chicken for lunch

This past Monday was a day to remember. When Amy and I had told my brother that I wanted to learn to cook like a Dominican, we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. Lunch alone here takes 2 ½ hours to complete, but I never really understood why. I understand now. After completing my homework for the morning, I heard my brother, Alberto’s voice calling to me to come outside. We were going to begin our cooking lessons from the very first step. I got out my recipe book, eager to write down every detail, so that I could return to the states and recreate the incredible Dominican cuisine. But as soon as I saw those cute little dove-like birds huddled up in the corner of our porch, I knew that I would probably not want to record this part for re-creation. This would not be like cooking in the states. When I want chicken, I reach into my freezer and choose from breaded nuggets, or BBQ strips. When a Dominican wants chicken, which is daily for lunch, he grabs one of the many birds in the yard and starts from the very beginning. Alberto chose two, of course the two cutest ones that I was crossing my fingers would escape his grasp. He tied one up, feet in the air, with its neck conveniently dangling about waist high. Amy had decided she couldn’t watch, and I ran and grabbed my camera to catch all the action. Alberto knew that the Americans would react to the dramatics of it all, so he put on a show. With a mischievous grin on his face, and a sharpened knife in his hand, he slowly sawed off the head of the first chicken. I stood there for 2 minutes, wincing and groaning as the chicken’s nervous system took over, it’s head on the ground. It continued to flail its wings frantically while a fountain of blood squirted out from the stub of a neck and splatter-painted the wall a shade of crimson. After the dead bird had stopped twitching, Yoeni , our family friend, took over. She is the strongest and kindest girl I’ve ever met. I’ll tell more about her in my next blog. Anyway, she detached the bird from the rope, and carried the bloody, limp body over to a pot of hot water to wash it. After that she started plucking out all the feathers. Amy and I got in on this part, yet I admit, most of the time I was just moving my hands over the chicken to make it look like I was doing something. I only plucked 2 feathers in all I think. Alberto soon came over with the second dead chicken and we repeated the process. Then Alberto cut open the bottom of the chicken for the removal of the organs. One must have had some air trapped in him because he let out a fairly loud fart. I never knew chickens did that! Maybe they only do when their dead. Next thing I knew Alberto’s hand was all the way up the chicken scraping out all of its insides. Amy wanted to give it a try and made a valiant effort to do the same with the other. I was content just watching. After being washed again and cut into the parts of the chicken that we all know so well, it finally started looking like the familiar pieces of meat covered in clear plastic that you so often see in the refrigerated section at supermarkets in the states. An hour had already passed just to get to this point. It took us 2 more hours to cut up vegetables (which is something I can stomach) and cook the chicken along with rice and beans that accompany every main course in this country. When the meal was served, all I could picture were those cute little feathery friends staring at me from my dinner plate. I picked at the chicken and dove right into the rice and beans, although I did try the chicken foot for good measure. It was mostly just rubbery like fat. Alberto commented that we had finished our plates, while normally we leave a lot more rice and beans for the dogs. I explained that for some strange reason I just started liking rice and beans a lot more today. I think he got the hint. It might take me a few days to get over the knowledge of this entire process. There’s just something about in a scheme of 2 hours, seeing a cute white bird turn into the chicken leg on my plate that stifles my appetite a bit. But it’s part of life in this country. It’s part of my life now. It’s just one of the new experiences here to embrace and accept. And I’m sure that during this adventure, there will be many, many more. So bring ‘em on!