You Aren't What You Eat; Revenge

WARNING: shamelessly bloody and gory photos and descriptions are included in this edition of This Erica Life. If you are sensitive to blood be ware. Unless you hate chickens, then freely read on. Thanks. 

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In college, it took me nearly a year to work up the courage to donate blood. I was compelled by a sense of responsibility and finally had enough iron in my system after a few unsuccessful and disappointing (relieving?) attempts. It wasn't easy. I couldn't watch the needle go in and one glance at the pint sized bag of my own blood left me dizzy.

A few weeks ago when Chet Hopp kicked a pickaxe while working and split his foot open, I was useless in the emergency wound cleaning procedure. After a glance at the small but deep cut I swooned, was sat down by more reliable friends, and announced, "I think I saw inside his foot!". 

I'm not a vegetarian. I love properly raised, naturally healthy, vitamin and protein packed meat. However, the process between farm and table I am not particularly keen on being involved in. At some point, though, I feel responsible to learn and participate in killing and cleaning the food I eat. The problem lies in what is suggested by the first two paragraphs of this blog; I am unable to control my fear of blood. 

When something really motivates me I can be nearly unstoppable. Over the past two years I have lived together with chickens. Chicken run free-range in nearly every middle and lower class home in Panama. People proudly say ¡pollo de patio es mas sabroso que pollo de comprar! or "chicken that run around in my yard are much tastier than chicken from the store!" I have heard that urban farming has been all the rage in the US and many have adopted backyard chickens. Living so intimately with chickens has its dramatic downsides. Contrary to the popularized belief, roosters crow at whatever time of the day or night. Unpredictable chicken sex is the most unpleasant thing to happen to see. Us volunteers use annoying roosters for target practice from our hammocks. We make plans to buy and eat the most obnoxious ones at our farewell parties. 

So when I was poised, knife in hand, the thought of blood and life draining from a helpless chicken's body - I  channeled all the annoyance and rage that chickens have caused me in my time here and let 'er slice. 

Mine is the face of someone in agony. Her's is chuckling  like  she's watching Seinfeld. 
Photo Cred. E. King 

The key is to apply pressure and never hesitate.
Photo Cred. E. King 

I had the opportunity to kill a chicken that my friends and I would eat for the celebratory last day of a water committee seminar. I learned how to kill it, then it was dunked in boiling water, then plucked and gutted. By the next day it was tasty chicken guisado and I felt capable and vindicated.

I channeled my inner rage, and then cried. 

Yep, lemme check. Oh yea... she's dead. 

At least someone gets a hot water bath around here. 

There isn't anything I can't conquer.