Ok, so I didn’t kill the chicken myself. My excuse was that it was getting dark and so my neighbor had to get the job done fairly quickly. (We live in a little strip of apartment-type housing, and really, don’t have anywhere to keep a chicken). And so, I watched from a safe distance. It was quite impressive the skill and speed from which the chicken went from the live state to being boiled in a pot. As he was gutting it, he paused to give me a quick biology lesson on all the innards. Laughing, I reassured him that this was the part I knew and understood.
My neighbors couldn’t believe that yesterday was my first day ever touching a live chicken (I’m pretty sure I never touched any of the animals at Butterfield Acres when I went as a child) or witnessing the death of one. It’s not that I’m traumatized by the process, I’m just not comfortable with things that have fur or feathers. Lizards and snakes are ok; goats and chickens are not. Don’t even like cats, dogs, rabbits or hamsters.
In the end, I was told that I should buy a chicken and kill it before I leave Ghana. I know Jody and Carissa did this. I know people in Canada who raise and kill their own chickens. I’m not sure though, I’m thinking I might just stick to Lillydale.
p.s. It tasted good.
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