Fortified by half a bottle of excellent Verse One Semillon Sauvignon Blanc 2002, Bianca and I took Lola the young rooster to the chopping block yesterday afternoon.
Bianca held the poor bird bought as a hen two months ago (two of four Leghorns turned out to be roosters), around the body and feet, while I tugged ever so gently at its neck - and then brought down the little hatchet...
Lola minus head struggled for minutes before all the virile little life, and quite a bit of amazingly thick and brilliant red blood, had drained from his taut sprinter's body.
Bianca fought back tears, so I escorted her back to the kitchen for another glass of the magic potion...
This morning, while I walked 3 km to call on CB with a sweater and shawl, Bianca plucked Lola at the execution site, away from the other members of his harassed flock. His runty companion Spotty, now also on death row, seemed to be the only one among 17 fowl to think anything was amiss. At least he didn't scream for him overnight.
CB told me she'd commemorated Lola in HER blog.
Upon my return to Clod Nine, I grabbed my plumber's gas torch and singed the remaining stubble, then - armed with a keen Swedish Nordmark filleting knife - I graduated to the gruesome task of 'dressing' Lola - undressing would be a more appropriate term, as Bianca had torn the skin in many places...
Gianna is going to share our guilt: on Thursday, when she brings around the bub on the bus, Lola is the main attraction on the slate. Perhaps I'll dig up some Peruvian potatoes for the occasion.
(Talking of harvests: one year I was 'self-sufficient' in chillies, the next in gherkins - but this year all I got for my troubles in planting a packet of peanuts in my patch is FIVE peanuts!)
Ci vediamo!
Carioca
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