I come from humble beginnings. My fairly will attest (and endlessly remind me) that no matter how many airs I put on I'm still a simple island boy. That being said, that does not mean that I haven't learned to appreciate the finer things in life. I may not be able to afford them, but that does not mean I don't want them.
Which brings me to the preparations for my first ever dinner party in India. First off, my meager stipend does not allow for some of the culinary luxurious that I would normally splurge on (paper plates it is! Who needs coke when you have Thumbs Up!) . Second, the food requested was a traditional Puertorican vittles (which today will consists of white rice, red beans, and friend chicken), which is tasty but not very glamorous (and many thanks to my blessed mother for the huge package of Puertorican seasonings, this dinner is dedicated to you!). It's is really hard to look fabulous when gnawing on a chicken bone! Third, I don't have all the necessary kitchen utensils (how am I supposed to make the whip cream for the dessert when I don't even have a whisk let alone a hand blender! BTW - the dessert course is neither Indian nor Puertorican, just a creative use of available resources - glazed apples over warm parathas with fresh whip cream and pomegranate seeds for a touch of color).
Lastly, my market experience. For the most part it was easy. Buying rice - No problem. Veggies - a snap (the pumpkin looks great). It really is amazing what a couple of mispronounced ben-hin-glish words can do when coupled with some hand signals. But buying the chicken!? Oh my flying spaghetti monster, that took some resolved. My western sensibilities accostumed to the nicely sterile experience of pre-packed, styrofoamed, vacuumed sealed, anonymous meat products, were not prepared to having to picking my own chicken and having its head cut off, blood drained, plucked, skinned (why don't Indians eat the skin? It's the tastiest part), and quartered all as I watched. All this before my first cup of coffee mind you (not that I drink coffee, but you get the point).
In all honesty, there was nothing brutal or gory about the whole affair. It was as mechanical and quick as the deli man slicing your cheese behind the counter. I just never been so close to the process. I have a vague memory of my grandmother plucking a chicken in the kitchen when I was really young, and skinning a rabbit which we later ate that night. But I was too young and they really didn't register. This was live, raw, and undeniably normal. I don't know how I feel about getting to now the animal I'm about to eat. I admit that I felt a need to thank the chicken for giving it's life for the sake of my dinner party. And god knows it's going to be the fresh piece of chicken I've ever eaten (it was still warm when I got home and I had to remove some hanging veins and such). Not quite sure how often I will be up for the experience. But at least I know I can do it.
After all this, the food better be fucking good!! Will let you know on Monday. Have a great weekend.
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2 comments:
Fresh plucked chicken - nothing quite as tasty as that! I've been treated to the gory spectacle quite a few times in the poultry markets of Grant Rd in Bombay. I hated it not so much for the goriness, as much for the nasty smell of decaying chicken feathers, and mucky water running down the streets.
I also was witness to a more sinister form of chicken slaughter at my grandparents' farmhouse. My aunt lured one into the house with a trail of grains, led her into a small room, closed the door, flipped the light switch off, grabbed the poor clucking thing and wrung her neck. Dinner was tasty then too :P
PS: You stole my line right back!
pooooor u!! ive never been witness to such horrors, and in that way, i hope to be the protecvted and sheltered little girl im supposed to be!!
but the food sounded yummmmmmmmm...
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