It seems that my nephew and niece were on a chicken raising kick. It started after one big birthday party. The take-away gifts were cute fuzzy yellow little chicks. The kids took a shine to them and brought them home. They didn’t last very long because the neighborhood cats ate them. Undeterred, they prevailed upon their parents to buy them new chicks, which they did.
The chicks, it turned out, were male. Soon they grew into big strapping roosters. They started lording it over the house. They would peck at people’s feet. My mother was attacked, as was my sister. Luckily, they left the kids alone.
It got to a point where the family didn’t know what to do with the roosters anymore. They were big, they were nasty, and they pooped all over. Something had to be done. And that something had to do with where all chickens end.
Mother called on her friend and asked if she would take the chickens. Yes, she agreed. Yesterday, our handyman brought them over to the friend’s house. She didn’t even wait. As soon as the handyman arrived with the chickens, she told him: “Go twist their necks.”
Part of the rooster came back to my mother as chicken stew. Did they also give some to my sister’s family? I asked Mother. “No,” she said, “it would have been awful! They were pets!”
And how was the chicken? I pressed further.
“Delicious,” she said.