From Scratch

I don’t recall ever having fresh squeezed juice before, let alone making the juice myself.  However, I’ve been sitting here for about 30 minutes peeling the shells from the canoe, which will be mashed, strained and left to sit for a day before we will drink the juice.  The canoe fruit is one of the few fruits that grow in Mabalane, and it is just coming into season.  The juice only surfaces once a year, but it is a staple in Mozambican culture.  The history teacher at the school informed me that selling the canoe juice is illegal because of it’s significance to the people.  The canoe has a skin that I might put somewhere between the consistency of an orange and the texture of a peach without the fur.  It’s about the size of a golf-ball and has a large pit that the majority of the “meat” of the fruit is connected to, but it has a decent amount of juice and that’s why we’re working.

After I finish peeling another canoe, I pop it in my mouth to suck on as I work.  As I’m working, Francisco rides up on his bike to let us know that there is a lady in town who is still selling chickens.  The energy and the railway have been out for nearly two weeks at this point (due to rains and flooding) so I don’t hesitate to retrieve the 150 metecais for the chicken.

A short time later, Francisco returns with the chickens, one for Charlie and I and one for senora directora (Chefe).  This is the first live chicken I’ve ever owned.  The sky has turned dark now and the plan is to cook it tomorrow, but I am clueless as to what to do with this chicken overnight.  Chefe says to put the chicken in a basilla (a 10-inch deep, 18-inch diameter tub that’s used for anything you might use a sink for in the States) overnight so it doesn’t run all over the house.  I carry the chicken in the house in the basilla.  Charlie is busy cooking supper and I mention the chicken has arrived.  I put the basilla under the table Charlie is working at and cover it with another, larger basilla (which I note fits very snugly) to keep the chicken from causing a ruckus during the night.

The following day around 10, my stomach is thinking about making lunch and my brain begins to prepare itself to cut the chicken’s throat, when I realize I haven’t heard the chicken moving or clucking today.  Then my eyes catch the rim of the upside-down, larger basilla that is an inch away from the floor.  I then remember how snugly the basilla seemed to fit together upon placement.

“Surely it couldn’t have been air-tight,” I assure myself.

It was.

My hand lifts the top basilla and before my eyes can see it, my nose verifies my suspicion.  Both basillas are plastered with crap.  The chicken is laying motionless, dead.

Wasting no time, I wash the chicken and the basillas.  A tinge of remorse hits me when I realize how much longer the chicken’s death was due to my mistake.  In any scenario, the chicken would’ve died, and I tell myself I won’t make the same mistake again.

After plucking, I remove the head, feet, and entrails, just like my language group practiced in Namaacha.  One super-market chicken, thawed and ready.  After Charlie returns from classes, we create a marinade/baste consisting of garlic cloves, vinegar, oil, and a Texan seasoning concoction left by the previous Mab volunteers (thanks guys).  The moment the chicken hits the grill, the smell is intoxicating and my mouth is salivating.  Charlie and I devour the legs, wings, and thighs, but save the breasts for later.

Around 4, I place the head and feet into a pot of boiling water to create the broth for our chicken noodle soup.  While that’s boiling, I throw together flour, egg, and salt to create the noodles (I had no idea noodles were that easy), and roll it out to let sit a while.  As the noodles are setting, I walk to the schoolyard and collect a couple handfuls of leaves and flowers from the moringa trees.  The leaves, flowers, cut noodles, an onion, the grilled chicken breasts, and a little bit of caldo (chicken bouillon) all go into the boiling pot for about 20 minutes.

Sitting down to eat our chicken noodle soup, Charlie tells me a story:

“So remember when you were telling me the story of how the chicken must have suffocated during the night.  Well, last night when I went to bed I had no idea we had a chicken in the house.”

*At this point, I should note that Charlie sleeps in the main room because his room is on the west side of the house, and is unbearably hot when we’re trying to fall asleep.  The main room, however, has a nice cross-breeze during the evenings; and, also, on this particular evening, a slowly suffocating chicken.

“So around 2 or 3 last night, all of the sudden I hear this really load crashing and thrashing noise 3 feet from my head.  I had no idea what it was at the time and it scared the s*** out of me.  When you told me about how the chicken suffocated today I realized it must have been the chicken’s death rattle.”