chickens. yum.

{ May 9, 2010 @ 6:33 pm } · { Uncategorized }

This morning, I was on my third cup of coffee at Konta Kunda (my training homestay house).

**Side note: definitely thought I would have to quit coffee before coming to Senegal, turns out that this is jamfaata (far) from the truth.  They make “café touba” here.  I.e. coffee with spices and a diabetes-inducing amount of sugar.  I really think they should start selling it at Starbucks.  It is really tasty.

Anyways, I was sitting and Baba comes out holding a live chicken and a large knife.

**Side note number two: I must describe my Baba to make this story as clear as possible.  Baba Konta is 1. A marabou, ie. man of god and he has that sort of air to him, you know, holy.  2. Very small and 3. One of the sweetest and unassuming men I have come to find in Senegal yet.

So, the large knife.  He just has this huge smile on his face, as he plucks off five feathers of the living, struggling chicken and then looks at my terrified face and walks over to the other side of the yard and holds the chicken down.  The entire family (all 13 of them) just look at me and Awa, one of the twins just says “Il va touer.” Uh yeahhh I get that, and apparently it’s a family affair.  So Baba cuts the chickens neck and it just seizes everywhere to a slow and fitful death as I make my weird toubab uncomfortable sounds and everyone laughs at me.

Then lunch rolls around. And what do we have? Chicken.  And now, chicken is a special and exciting thing to eat here because usually I eat fish twice a day and probably have mercury poisoning by now.  I was trying to be thrilled at the thought of eating the protein-filled, tiny bone-less meat.  Yet as this commentary clearly shows, I could not kill my Ameri-vegan thoughts and the image of the seizing chicken out of my head.  It was so disappointing because I really just wanted to devour it.  And I really have no problem eating whatever sort of meat any time, but this is the first time I have seen the act of how that chicken gets on the plate. From beginning to end. Maybe it was also because this isn’t just any old chicken, but I have been living with this chicken for three months, perhaps I got attached.

And I wrote my Peace Corps entry essay about my willingness to “taste everything.”  Food is an entirely different ballgame here and I want to play.  So in two years, I just may kill my own chicken, nshallah.

This morning, I was on my third cup of coffee at Konta Kunda (my training homestay house).
**Side note: definitely thought I would have to quit coffee before coming to Senegal, turns out that this is jamfaata (far) from the truth.  They make “café touba” here.  I.e. coffee with spices and a diabetes-inducing amount of sugar.  I really think they should start selling it at Starbucks.  It is really tasty.
Anyways, I was sitting and Baba comes out holding a live chicken and a large knife.
**Side note number two: I must describe my Baba to make this story as clear as possible.  Baba Konta is 1. A marabou, ie. man of god and he has that sort of air to him, you know, holy.  2. Very small and 3. One of the sweetest and unassuming men I have come to find in Senegal yet.
So, the large knife.  He just has this huge smile on his face, as he plucks off five feathers of the living, struggling chicken and then looks at my terrified face and walks over to the other side of the yard and holds the chicken down.  The entire family (all 13 of them) just look at me and Awa, one of the twins just says “Il va touer.” Uh yeahhh I get that, and apparently it’s a family affair.  So Baba cuts the chickens neck and it just seizes everywhere to a slow and fitful death as I make my weird toubab uncomfortable sounds and everyone laughs at me.
Then lunch rolls around. And what do we have? Chicken.  And now, chicken is a special and exciting thing to eat here because usually I eat fish twice a day and probably have mercury poisoning by now.  I was trying to be thrilled at the thought of eating the protein-filled, tiny bone-less meat.  Yet as this commentary clearly shows, I could not kill my Ameri-vegan thoughts and the image of the seizing chicken out of my head.  It was so disappointing because I really just wanted to devour it.  And I really have no problem eating whatever sort of meat any time, but this is the first time I have seen the act of how that chicken gets on the plate. From beginning to end. Maybe it was also because this isn’t just any old chicken, but I have been living with this chicken for three months, perhaps I got attached.
And I wrote my Peace Corps entry essay about my willingness to “taste everything.”  Food is an entirely different ballgame here and I want to play.  So in two years, I just may kill my own chicken, nshallah.