The chickens are no longer even remotely cute, and the day came (today) to end their semi-squalid, senseless – and expensive-lives.

Don’t judge me too harshly. I like chickens as a species just fine. But, as Raz says, gaze into the eyes of a chicken and you will not see one inkling of a recognizable intelligence. Nothing you and I would call a soul in, say, a hedgehog or a pony. No indeed, a chicken is really nothing more than a be-feathered pecking robot. And their eyes do that creepy lizard inner-lid blink, which is unsettling in a warm-blooded creature. It’s easy to see where the dinosaurs went.

Killing the chickens is quite a process, and this time, more then a little angst-ridden. You see, slaughtering the chickens requires a fair amount of water, which is boiled in half an oil drum over a large fire. Usually, this isn’t an issue, because my house is fortunate enough to be immune to most of the water problems (and the politics involved) that plague many Jamaican communities. We have a large concrete tank full of pumped water from the national water utility. On top of our roof sit two large black plastic drums with a back-up supply should the public pumps fail, as they have this week.

Our main tank is almost empty- I’ve never seen it so low, despite the heavy rains we’ve received all season. I believe that part of this is due to the fact that it’s Christmas time, when any Jamaican woman worth her salt- like my Miss B- is compelled to wash, dry, starch and iron absolutely every piece of fabric to found in a 3 mile radius. With the washing machine and every hand wash basin enlisted in this heroic example of housekeeping, tons of water gets used. Ergo, the debate whether to call the usual executioners over this morning’s tea.

Called they were, and the water was boiled. To kill a ‘ol eap a chicken dem’ , you must be prepared. You need a crocus bag (canvas burlap sac, like the ones potatoes come in), and you need a nail. The bag is nailed to a post, or a tree, whatever is convenient. A hole is cut in one corner of the bottom of the bag.
A table should be nearby. And the afore-mentioned boiling water.
Several plastic bags and basins are also recommended.
Last, but most certainly NOT least, you need a really sharp, large knife or machete.

First, grab a chicken. This must be done with resolution. You must commit to grabbing your chicken, because they try like hell to get away. They twist and screech and flap and generally inspire a feeling of satisfaction that it’s life will soon be ended at your hand. Stick the struggling bird headfirst into the sack so that it’s head is through the hole in the bottom. See how that works? Now it’s a fairly simple task to cut off it’s head. After that, you must wait for the decapitated body to stop freaking out. This is sort of fascinating in a really macabre way. Also, really gross. Most certainly the least pleasant part of the whole business.

When the carcass has stopped struggling, it is removed and thrust into the boiling water, then given to the designated chicken picker to be de-feathered and cleaned. Almost everything (except the head and the feathers and some of the entrails are used). Heart and liver go in one basin, necks and gizzards in another, still yet another pot for the feet.

Chicken feet, are, in my opinion, gross. Not to put to fine a point on it. But they seem to be one of those foods that you have to grow up eating to love. They just taste like what they are. When they are all sitting in a pot, a hundred of them, little pasty white claws stretching to heaven, they are creepy and not a little pathetic. When cooked, most commonly in a dish mysteriously titled “Chicken foot stew”, they are gummy, and fatty like chicken skin, but not in a good way. Also, seeing little bird feet sticking up out of your bowl is surreal.

I do love other parts of the chicken though! Liver! Heart! And more conventional, super-market cuts like thigh and breast. (After all this foot and heart discussion, thigh and breast seem positively decadent. Lascivious, even.) But the best part of a kill day is the soup.

Chicken soup in Jamaica is almost always amazing. Thick, hearty, and the portions are more then generous. It’s full of pumpkin and yam and cho-cho (a vegetable that is sort of like a cross between a cucumber and a squash), dashine and sweet potato, and dumplings (no dumplings for this girl) and all seasoned up with pimento and scallion and garlic and onion and thyme and a whole scotch bonnet pepper. Also, Maggi or Grace Cock soup seasoning, so if you are a true celiac, steer clear: the mix has flour to thicken it.

Kill day soup, or Slaughter Soup is especially delicious and tonight Miss B gave me extra chicken hearts because she knows I love them. The soup is perfect for cool Jamaican nights because it warms you up. Not only because it is served steaming hot from the pot, but because eating it is a hands-on activity, thanks to the chicken necks. Eating a chicken neck requires two hands and all your concentration to make sure you don’t crack a tooth or choke on a tiny vertebrate. For the pitiful amount of meat they provide, I’m not sure their worth all the work, but they do give the soup it’s rich, full-bodied taste. Besides, Miss B loves to see me eat “Jamaican style”.

There’s another batch of yellow chicks piping around the chicken coop. I sincerely doubt they know what awaits them…