Chicken

When my grandmother wanted chicken and dumplings, my sister and I were sent to do battle in the hen yard. Brandishing little rods with crookneck ends, we felt like Roman soldiers among the Sabines. In wild pursuit, we ran in a crouch, with our garnering weapons outstretched to catch the hooks around a leg of the prey. Success depended upon tripping the hen up with a jerk of the left hand while grabbing its feet quickly with the right hand. Squawking and head down, the hen was received by my waiting grandmother, who dispatched it with a quick wring of the neck. Of course, no battle was ever so smooth as in its retelling; though old and fat, the barnyard birds found new agility in impending doom. Just when I would put my energy into a quick yank, the old hen would hop to a short flight—I’d be pulling at air and find myself quickly head over heels in a cloud of dust.