The Old Crimson Hen Mar 19, 2024
The Unforeseen Necessity
On a chilly January 5th, within the confines of our shelter, I experienced an unexpected craving—one that transcended mere hunger. Meat, elusive and precious, beckoned to me. While I wasn’t a fervent carnivore, chicken held a special place in my heart. Its versatility—transforming into maglouba, msakhan, shawarma, or fata—made it indispensable.
Yet, here we were, enduring our second month without a taste of meat. Eggs, too, played hide-and-seek, their prices inflated ninefold. Canned food and lentil soup became our monotonous companions. Desperation drove me and my mother to explore the shelter’s informal market—a bustling community where 40,000 residents mingled with vendors. Our diverse customer community spanned economic classes, from those who could double prices a hundredfold to my family middle-class reality—fixed salaries and budget juggling.
And then, I saw him: the chicken seller. But this wasn’t the familiar chicken vendor. His chickens were alive, feathers ablaze in crimson defiance. I turned to my mother, silently pleading. Her eyes mirrored my longing. “How much for the chicken today?” she asked. The man’s reply echoed: “Seventy shekels each, regardless of weight.”
“And cleaning?”
” Not part of the deal.”
Feathers and innards loomed as daunting challenges. How could we strip away those defiant red plumes? How could we clean its insides? Determination surged—I’d seen others do it. We bought the live chicken, cradling it in a plastic bag, its head held high. It squawked and protested, a gulp of life in our hands.
Our neighbor’s compassion intervened. “Cooking it today?” she asked. My mother nodded. She directed us to the shelter’s rear, where skilled hands awaited. An hour later, we returned, anticipation bubbling. And there it was: our chicken, stripped of its fiery feathers, a mere kilo of resilience. It was an old one and needed three hours to be cooked.
In that moment, the red hen embodied survival. Its sacrifice transcended mere sustenance—it whispered hope. As we prepared our humble feast, I marvelled at the indomitable spirit that clung to life, even when plucked bare.